Heartbeats
by Aima D. Duragon
Summary: What if the Battle of Hogwarts had gone differently? What if Voldemort found out the secret of controlling the Elder Wand first? And what if Harry's last chance of survival rested in the hands of the person he hated most-Draco Malfoy? HP/DM
1. Day 1

**A/N:** And I'm once again unable to stay away from my OTP. The title of this fic is based off a great cover of a song, which you should all listen to!

**Warnings:** Future slash. Don't like? Don't read! There will also be mild mentionings of torture and Snaco (not necessarily together or in that order), neither of which should really be explicit in any way.

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_**~xXx~**_

_One night of magic rush_  
_The start a simple touch_  
_One night to push and scream_  
_And then relief_

_Ten days of perfect tunes_  
_The colors red and blue_  
_We had a promise made_  
_We were in love_

_And you, you knew the hands of the devil  
And you, kept us awake with wolf teeth  
Sharing different heartbeats  
In one night_

_To call for hands of above_  
_To lean on_  
_Wouldn't be good enough_  
_For me, no_

-Scala and the Kolacny Brothers

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*** Day 1 ***

Draco Malfoy was walking to the drawing room in Malfoy Manor—a room he must have walked to hundreds of times in his life. He knew the way without even having to think, and right now he didn't want to think. Thinking, above all things, was dangerous. Thinking was what had gotten people like Snape and Dumbledore killed. Draco had gone through too much to be killed now—he'd crawled through too much blood, and he'd vomited up to many vows.

He'd made all the right choices. He'd chosen the winning team. The Death Eaters had overcome Hogwarts, and it was only a matter of time before the rest of the Wizarding world followed suit. They'd won. And Harry Potter was gone. Harry Potter was…

"Good evening, Draco."

Draco looked up, his heart flying into his throat. He'd entered the drawing room without even realizing. Draco froze, blinking and trying to take in his surroundings. Lord Voldemort was reclined on one of the sofas near the hearth, one foot propped up on the cushions while the other dangled near the floor. His long white arm was draped along the back, his sharp nails scraping at a loose string. It was a far cry from any of the usual cold calculated poses the Dark Lord usually favored, but he somehow managed to make it look just as menacing. Voldemort's eyes slid across the room while Draco's immediately fell. The Slytherin dipped into a deep bow, glad that his robes were loose enough to cover the trembling in his knees.

"You summoned me, My Lord?"

"Yes," Voldemort drew out the 's' with a spine tingling hiss. "Do you know why that is?"

Draco didn't, but he very doubted that Lord Voldemort wanted an answer anyway.

"You've done something that very few of my followers have managed to do. It's not that odd, I suppose, considering the incompetence I deal with on a daily basis. Do you know what that thing is, Draco?"

Again, Draco didn't respond.

The barest hint of a smile curled on Voldemort's thin lips. "You _surprised_ me."

At this, Draco's eyes did flick up. Red irises held him like a rat caught in a snare.

"I'm sure you're under no delusion as to why I gave you the task of killing Dumbledore. I was assured you would fail, and in the end I suppose you did. However…" With a fluid grace, Voldemort folded his limbs together and stood. His large black robes billowed behind him like smoke as he walked towards Draco. "Your failure gave me something so much greater."

Draco watched the Dark Lord's hand dip into his pocket and pull out the Elder Wand. He stared down at it distantly. The white wood looked overly pale against his Lord's greyed skin.

"You gave me a great gift. You—a mere boy—figured out why the Elder Wand would not obey me, even after I'd killed Snape. You told me that Harry Potter was the master of this wand, and yet you also told me that he did not have to die in order for that power to be transferred to myself. How ironic it was that the only thing required to give me this power was not death, but a simple disarming charm—Harry Potter's own trademark spell. I followed your instruction against my better judgement, and my reward was more than I could've ever imagined. Because I did not kill the boy, you inadvertently gave me a knowledge that no one else had ever been able to give me. I discovered something about Potter I would never have known, and that knowledge ended up saving my life. You, Draco, gave me this when no one else could."

Draco's throat hurt, like he'd just swallowed something that wouldn't go down. It was true—he had figured the wand's riddle…but not in time. Not in time to save Snape.

"In return I'd like to honor you above all other Death Eater's. In return…I'd like to grant you a task that I trust to no one else."

For once, Draco couldn't keep the words down anymore. There was a dread growing deep within him, dark and foreboding. "What's that, My Lord?"

The Dark Lord's eyes flashed a blood searing red in the darkness. "I'm not sure if you've heard yet, but…we've captured Harry Potter."

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**_~xXx~_**

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Short entry I know but I should be updating this fic fairly often...so hopefully that makes up for it.

**Feed the starving writer!**


	2. Day 2

**A/N: **I guess I should also note that there will be some mentionings of a not entirely appropriate past relationship between Draco and Snape. Again this won't be described in any amount of graphic detail, but it will be there nevertheless...mostly because I love angst. So yus! :) Carry on!

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 2 ***

Pain. Merlin, was that all there was any more?

Harry shifted, his bones straining to remain in socket as the weight of his body pulled him down. Heavy chains bound his wrists and ankles, stretching him out as far as his skin would possibly allow. For hours they'd left him like this. Or maybe it was days—the room had no windows to let him know. All he knew now were the lashes on his back, the hot blood slithering down his legs, and the frigid subterranean air biting into his wounds.

A metal door screeched open, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps and leather rubbing against stone.

They were going to beat him again. Merlin, he couldn't take it. They hadn't even asked him any questions.

A whip cracked and a scream tore out of Harry's throat. It was strange, to hear his pain more than actually feel it. He needed to get away—far far away to some forsaken place. Far away in the deep dark where he couldn't hear himself scream.

The snake. The cup. The crown. The ring. The locket. The diary.

Six. Always six. Hadn't Dumbledore said there were only six? Then why hadn't their plan worked? Where had they gone wrong? What had they missed?

Another crack of leather. Another whir of mind-numbing agony.

Snake. Cup. _Crack!_ Crown. Ring. _Crack!_ Locket. Diary. _Crack!_

Dumbledore had said there were only six.

_Crack!_

Dumbledore.

_Crack!_

Dumbledore was dead.

_Crack!_

So…why wasn't he?

_Crack!_

_I open at the close_.

"Stop!"

Harry's eyes flew open as the sound broke through his thoughts like a sword slicing through air. That voice. Oh, God…he knew that voice.

"Are you a fucking idiot?" Malfoy snapped, his words coming out colder than ice. "The Dark Lord wants him _alive_, and you're in here peeling the fucking flesh off his bones. Get out." There was the briefest sound of a struggle, followed by the slap of leather against the ground. "OUT!"

A second later, Malfoy was standing in front of him, his pale brow stretched tight over his silver eyes. His nose wrinkled before he snorted and pulled out his wand.

"You smell worse than a rotten Mandrake, Potter."

Harry watched as the other boy ran his wand along his bare torso, thin wisps of silver trailing in its wake. The silver wisps spread across Harry's skin like fog, making it feel oddly warm. Slowly, his gashes began to fold back together and mend.

"Wh—" Harry's voice broke as the words dried up in his throat.

Malfoy looked up at him, the top of his lip curling into a sneer. "Hold on I'll get you some water. Merlin, I can't believe this."

He continued down along both of Harry's legs, keeping a steady stream of silver fog flowing from the tip of his wand. When he seemed satisfied, he pulled his wand back to give it another flourishing wave. A wooden cup of water appeared in his hand. Harry immediately salivated.

With very little care of Harry's teeth, Malfoy pressed the cup to his mouth and tipped. Cold water rushed into Harry's mouth, nearly gagging him, but he didn't care. He gulped it down, allowing it to soothe the burn in his blood-coated throat. He downed the cup in seconds.

"Thirsty were you?" Malfoy pulled the cup back and glared down at it like he suspected it was infested with worms. "More?"

Harry stared at him, panting furiously. It didn't hurt so badly to breathe anymore. "What are you doing?"

Malfoy raised a pale brow. "I was asking if you wanted some more water. Does that question warrant an interrogation nowadays?"

"I meant," Harry rocked against his bindings and struggled not to grimace as his left shoulder creaked, "why are you here? Why are you healing me? Why hasn't Voldemort—"

The back of Malfoy's hand whipped across his cheek. Harry's vision blurred as his glasses were knocked askew.

"Before we start this, we're going to have to set a couple of ground rules. Rule number one: _never_ say the Dark Lord's name in my presence. Never. Rule number two: one question at a time." Malfoy took Harry's glasses, repaired them, and set them back on his nose.

Harry swallowed as he stared at Malfoy's pale face. He figured he should be feeling a multitude of emotions right about now, but as it was he couldn't conjure up a single one. "You're preparing me for him, aren't you? He's…going to kill me now, isn't he?"

"Didn't I _just_ tell you to only ask one question at a time?" Malfoy rolled his eyes and walked around to Harry's back. "And quit being so melodramatic. Merlin I haven't even been in the same room as you for five minutes and I've already got a headache."

"If that's not why you're here, then—" He stopped as he felt Malfoy's wand trail across the open wounds on his back. A sharp pain hit him before it slowly began to ease and settle into a numbing chill.

"I'm here," Malfoy blew out a breath, as if what he was about to say was going to be quite difficult to get out, "because I'm going to be in charge of you from now on."

"In charge of me?"

"Yes. Unlike the rest of us, the Dark Lord actually wants to keep you alive."

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**_~xXx~_**

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From this point on the POV's will be alternating every 3 chapters or so. I'm really looking forward to this story!

**Feed the starving writer!**


	3. Days 3-7

**A/N: **Woo! Another chapter! Btw this story is currently un-beta'd and I miiiiight keep it that way. Please point out any glaring errors you see! Sometimes my copy paste function also acts weird on this site, so if something is wrong I would definitely appreciate knowing!

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Days 3-7 ***

The first week in the cell passed with relative ease, that is, if Harry could consider being in the same room as Draco Malfoy 24-hours a day easy. Which it wasn't. At all. Frankly, he preferred the torture.

Apparently being "in charge" of Harry meant staying down in the dungeons to spend every waking moment with him. In a nutshell, he was a glorified babysitter. It was beyond degrading. He felt like some caged animal in a zoo, and Malfoy was the six year old boy poking him with a stick through the bars. Malfoy had set himself up a cozy little nook in a corner just outside the cell, complete with a large leather chair and a small fire that refused to leak its warmth into Harry's cage. He read most of the time. Hell, he read _all_ the time. Harry hadn't thought it possible before, but Malfoy could probably give Hermione a run for her money on words per minute.

Something about it made Harry furious.

All Harry had was silence. Silence and a few spare bones from the scraps of chicken that Malfoy fed him twice a day. He'd tried to amuse himself by using the bones to draw on the stone, but they were too fragile—they snapped almost immediately. When he'd grown brazen enough to ask for some parchment and a quill, Malfoy had promptly bound and gagged him for two hours.

The days were endlessly long, and with nothing but his mind and the incessant quiet to occupy his time, Harry quickly realized that he would not be able to handle another cupboard under the stairs. This was a waste of his time. His friends needed him. The Wizarding world needed him. He wasn't going to let the tide of the war be swayed by one stupid mistake. He couldn't…

He had to figure out a way to get out of this cell. The only problem was, it was disappointingly well made. It wasn't at all like the other large cell he'd been thrown in last time he was at Malfoy Manor. No, this one was a cramped jumble of iron and stone. The bars were at least an inch and a half thick and showing no hints of rust, and the stone was smooth and solid so digging wasn't an option either. But if he could get his hands on a wand…

Harry's eyes shifted to Malfoy, who was lounging across the leather chair in his usual position, a large book cradled in his lap. The light of the fire gleamed off the dark wood of his wand, which he always kept tucked behind his left ear as he read. Unfortunately, Malfoy was always careful to keep himself a good five feet away from the bars at all times—he wasn't the idiot that most of Voldemort's Death Eater's were. Maybe. Everyone had _something_ they were an idiot about. So if Harry could figure that out and somehow lure Malfoy in closer…

Thinking quickly, Harry faked a sputtering cough, followed by a couple desperate gagging noises. He quickened his breath and began pounding on his chest. The muscles in his neck contracted as he started to wheeze, and a moment later he dropped bodily to the ground.

"Potter," Malfoy's eyes didn't leave his book, "get up. I'm not an idiot you know."

Harry didn't move.

"I've put so many status charms on you, I'd be able to tell if you so much as stubbed your toe, so you're sure as hell not choking. Valiant effort though. I did enjoy the part where you fell."

Well damn.

Harry pushed himself up into a sitting position. He leaned back against the wall, cold ridges of stone biting though the thin fabric of his shirt. Glaring heartily at Malfoy, he snorted. "Is your plan to bore me to death? Because if that's the case then I think it's working."

Malfoy flipped a page. "No," he said, drawing out the vowel. "The point of this whole soirée we're having is to make sure you stay _alive_ remember?"

"Oh, right," Harry laughed sardonically. "All those times Voldemort tried to kill me were—"

Malfoy's eyes flashed like the edge of a blade catching sunlight. "Rule number one, Potter. Don't think I won't gag you again."

Harry stared back at him, a dark fire rising in his chest. His nose crinkled and his ears burned. "Vol-de-mort."

Malfoy's hand was on his wand in a blink, his lips already forming the words of a spell. A blue jet of light shot out of his wand and wrapped itself around Harry's wrists and ankles as a gag filled his mouth. The spell pulled Harry onto his back, and suddenly there was a bucket hanging right over his head, water sloshing over its edges. Then a cloth settled over Harry's face, and his heart quickened.

The water came, heavy and ice cold. Harry felt the water soak through his gag and begin pouring into the back of his throat. He couldn't breathe. Harry felt his body jerk. Merlin, he couldn't breathe. Water drained down into Harry's lungs and a bright flaring pain burst through his chest. Harry's muscles seized as he struggled against his bindings. He couldn't move—he couldn't even turn his head. Water was filling his lungs. He was going to drown. He was going to drown, and he hadn't even—

Suddenly, the water stopped.

Harry's gag disappeared and he felt his bindings release. Sputtering, Harry rolled onto his side, pulling the cloth off his face and throwing up water and what little else he'd eaten that day.

"Are you done?"

Harry dragged air into his lungs, trying to ignore the creaking pain in his ribs. All he wanted to feel right now was his anger. It was burning in every last drop of his blood. He would get out of this cell if it was the last thing he ever did. Harry raised his head, his eyes narrowed as if he could release all his hatred out in a single glance.

Malfoy's brow twitched.

Harry opened his mouth and slowly said, "Voldemort."

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**_~xXx~_**

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**Feed the starving writer!**


	4. Day 15

**A/N: **This one took a little longer, mostly because I wanted to add clarification around Harry's capture. Originally I wasn't going to explain it at all, and I may end up taking that scene out if I find a better way to bring it into the story later. We'll see :)

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 15 ***

By the second week Harry and Malfoy had developed a general routine. Malfoy would sit like a ferret-faced prat in his chair, reading, until Harry would say or do something that somehow warranted obscure punishments. Harry had been hung, stretched, sliced, gagged, prodded, poked, stung, and burned by the various concoctions that Malfoy had conjured for him. Some of them had been quite creative. Just yesterday, Malfoy had forged a strange moving plant that spit acid at Harry whenever he said a word containing the letter 'v'. Of course, it had taken Harry at least six sprays to figure that out. Harry didn't know where he got the ideas—maybe from the multitudes of books he was flying through.

Overall though, Malfoy's tormenting spells were bearable. The Slytherin didn't have the stomach for true torture, Harry could tell. Harry had met people who could smile as they sliced someone apart. Bellatrix Lestrange was one of them. There was always something vital missing in their eyes—some part of their humanity that had been permanently ripped away. Some rare breeds of people were born with it, but more often than not it was a cultured trait. See enough bad things and soon they don't seem so bad anymore. Fear and normalization walking hand in hand. People were weak that way—they could only see pain for so long before it became a part of them.

Harry wondered if his eyes looked like that yet. He wasn't proud of the things he'd had to do to ensure the safety of the people he loved, but they were still alive and as long as that was true he couldn't afford the luxury of morals.

So many people had died. Too many people. They should've won that day at Hogwarts, but instead, their victory had been stripped from them. All because Harry hadn't been strong enough. Or smart enough. Or fast enough. Or…just plain _enough_. Voldemort had outmatched him—he'd found the secret of the Elder Wand first, and after that, Harry just couldn't beat him. Voldemort was the better wizard. Harry knew that. Everyone knew that. And one month ago, he'd proved it.

After the Battle of Hogwarts, they'd been forced to scatter. No one could be trusted, and no place was considered safe for long. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had drifted through the streets like shadows for weeks trying to regroup—trying to figure out _what to do_.

For a while they'd tried to look for a pensieve. After Snape had died…he'd left Harry a vial of memories, but Harry hadn't been able to make it up to Dumbledore's office before the Death Eaters had breached the castle doors. Hermione had been insistent that Snape's memories would hold the key to their victory, but pensieves weren't easy to come by, especially with Death Eaters roaming the streets and taking control of the markets. But, as usual, Hermione had been insistent.

So they had come up with a plan. A flimsy plan, maybe, but a plan nevertheless.

_"You shouldn't be here," Professor Slughorn hissed, his large jowls trembling. He glanced around the space of his dimly lit living room fervently, as if he feared the walls might be listening. "They've been watching my house!"_

_ "We just need information," Hermione replied earnestly. "A book; a spell—anything. Something that can tell us how to recreate the properties of a pensieve."_

_ Slughorn shook his head, beads of sweat dripping down his brow and sliding along the fat curve of his nose. "You can't just—the magic used to make pensieves is highly regulated! Now, I happen to know someone who has the authority to get their hands on such information, but it would take _time_."_

_"We don't have time, Professor," Harry whispered. "If you could just tell us where the information is kept—"_

_ "You're certainly not going to be breaking into the Ministry again! It's too dangerous!"_

_ Harry could feel the short strings of his temper beginning to snap. The warmth of Ron's hand on his shoulder steadied him, but only slightly. "We are past the point of caring about danger, Professor," he seethed, the grip on his wand overly tight. What they should be doing is holding the man down and shoving Veritaserum down his throat. "We lost too many people at Hogwarts to afford to care. Or haven't you seen all the names in the papers?"_

_ Slughorn's face contorted, his lips puckering as if he was tasting something sour. "I've seen the names," he said, almost bitterly. _

_ "You taught those people, Professor! Protected them! Even if the chance is slim we have to—"_

_ With a thundering crack, the living room burst into a flurry of glass and splinters. Harry felt a gust of power knock him aside, slamming him into the wall, the weight of Ron's body crashing into him moments later and stealing his breath. They fell to the ground in a crumpled heap, coughing and sputtering through the pluming clouds of dust. Harry's grip was still tight on his wand. _

_ "Hermione?" Ron choked, pushing himself to his feet and hauling Harry up with him. "Hermione?"_

_ "Quiet!" Slughorn hissed from somewhere beyond the cloud. Distantly, Harry could hear something heavy topple to the ground. "They're here—you need to run!"_

_ "Hermione?"_

_ "Run!"_

_ A frenzied bushel of brown hair appeared out of the haze, grabbing both of the boys and hauling them back towards the stairs. "Come on!" Hermione yanked at Harry's arm, her nails digging into his bicep._

_ The dust began to settle, and Harry could see a squadron of black-robed Death Eaters clamoring through the busted windows to hover over Slughorn's fallen form. The old professor had his wand raised, odd green sparks falling from its tip. _

_ "An illusion spell," one of them said, kicking Slughorn's wand from his hand. "It won't last long—he's here somewhere."_

_ Harry's heart fluttered as he allowed Hermione to slowly pull him back. They meant him. Of course they meant him. And now he was about to watch someone else die in his stead. _

_ Silently, the three made their way to the edge of the stairs, Slughorn's spell somehow protecting them from sight. All they had to do was make it up the stairs to the fireplace and floo themselves to safety. Escape was so close, and yet, for some reason Harry's knees locked just as the living room was about to pass out of sight._

_ "Where is he?" The Death Eater's large boot fell over Slughorn's wand hand, pressing it down into the floor. _

_ "I don't know."_

_ Harry heard the crack as the Death Eater's boot snapped the bone in Slughorn's index finger. Slughorn screamed, and the sound leapt straight down Harry's throat and jolted his stomach. He didn't notice the step he took until he felt Hermione pulling him back._

_ The Death Eater rotated his heel, digging it into the wound. "Where is he?" his voice was hard and gruff, like sandpaper scraping against stone._

_ "I—I've told you," Slughorn sputtered, saliva spilling down his chin. "I don't know."_

_ Harry flinched as another bone cracked and another scream split the silence of the room._

_ "Don't lie to me, old man!"_

_ Harry felt his heart lurch painfully. He felt sick. What was he supposed to do? Leave this man for dead? Leave him…like he'd left how many others? How many death-lists had he guiltily avoided? How many funerals had he knowingly skipped? He should've been able to save them…he should've been able to save them all._

_ Hermione's words were soft and delicate in his ear. "Harry…we have to go. You can't help him."_

_ "Please," Slughorn sobbed. "I don't know where he is. Please…just kill me and be done with it."_

_ Harry shook his head, barely noticing the tears that trailed down his cheeks. What was the point of being a savior if he couldn't save anyone? _

_ Baring his teeth, the Death Eater pointed his wand at Slughorn's chest. "Sorry," he cocked his head, a yellow grin cutting into the hollow lines of his cheeks, "but no friend of Potter's gets off that easy. Cruci—"_

_ "Stop!" Harry bellowed, breaking free of Hermione's grasp and surging forward. Everything grinded to a sudden halt. He practically felt the magic of the illusion spell shatter around him, and it was like stepping from a warm room out into an ice storm. _

_ The Death Eater's all turned in unison, their eyes going wide for a bewildered moment. _

_ Not giving them a chance to react, Harry threw his hands up, and cast one last pleading look over his shoulder, only to find a barren wall staring back. Relief swept over him as he turned back towards the Death Eaters. At least he wasn't dragging his friends into this mess with him. "Before you do anything, please, just listen." Harry swallowed against the lump that had grown in his throat. He needed to think. What could he do? What could he say that would keep the people he cared about safe? Then, an idea hit him, and just like most of his ideas, it was most likely a little crazy. "You are not as alone as you think you are. Even as I speak I have friends closing in on this place, but if you spare this man, I can assure you that they _won't attack_." He desperately hoped that Ron and Hermione would understand before it was too late. _

_ The Death Eater nearest Slughorn seemed the only one capable of speech. "We've been looking a long time for you, boy."_

_Harry nodded. "I know. I've been hiding from you for a long time."_

_"How can we be sure it's him?" one of them chirped. "How can we be sure it's not another doppelgänger?"_

_"Because I'm not, and if you don't listen to me then—"_

_"Are you trying to threaten us, boy?"_

_"No, I'm trying to reason with you." Harry took a deep breath and the air seemed to rattle in his lungs "So…are you going to let me give myself up or am I going to have to call my friends in here to—" _

"You're being awfully quiet today," Malfoy remarked.

Harry looked up, blinking as his mind was drudged from the memory. Malfoy set aside his book and stared at him with something that Harry would've mistaken with curiosity had he not known better.

"Every time I open my mouth it seems to wind up with a gag in it," Harry replied darkly.

"That's because you keep breaking my rules."

Harry snorted and dropped his gaze. Malfoy's rules. If he heard one more thing about Malfoy's fucking rules…

"Are you bored?"

"What the hell do you think, Malfoy?" _I've just spent an unknown length of time—because I can't fucking tell time in this God forsaken black pit of death—reminiscing about my capture. I must be going out of my mind…_

Malfoy's brows lifted. "Testy, testy, Potter. It was just a question."

A strange stagnant silence ensued.

"Would you like something to do?"

"No."

Malfoy scowled. "You haven't even heard my offer yet."

"I don't care about your offer."

"Well you've sure turned into a stick in the mud."

"Yeah, I've heard watching people die will do that to a person."

That seemed to shut Malfoy up. He turned back to his stack of books, picked up the one on top and cracked it open. With one last glance at Harry, Malfoy's blonde head lowered.

Neither of them said another word all night.

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**_~xXx~_**

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**Feed the starving writer!**


	5. Day 22

_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 22 ***

Three weeks had passed. Three long, miserable weeks without a single word from the outside world. Three weeks was a long time. A lot of people can die in three weeks.

Harry walked over to the bars where Malfoy sat. He was nestled up against the arm, his long legs draped over the long curving leather. It took the blonde a moment to notice him standing there. Grey eyes moved and there was a flash of surprise in them, as if he'd forgotten the bars between them existed for a moment. Malfoy's hand moved up to grab his wand, but he didn't make to cast a spell.

"You know," Malfoy's upper lip twisted, "it's not very polite to sneak up on people unannounced."

Harry wrapped his fingers around the cold iron bars and silently imagined what it would be like to wind his fingers around Malfoy's neck instead. "Lucky for us we're not on polite terms."

Malfoy wrinkled his nose in unanswered agreement. "I assume you're wanting something? Or are you just standing there to make yourself an easier target?"

"I want to ask you something."

"It's highly probable that you won't get an answer."

Harry frowned, his fingers tightening around the bars as he fantasized about what sort of noises Malfoy would make while he was choking. "I think I'll take my chances."

"Alright. Get on with it then."

"Why is Vol—" Harry frowned. The back of his tongue had spasmed when he'd tried to say the word. Harry didn't miss the slight twitch of a smirk pull on Malfoy's lips. Swallowing, he pressed on—he couldn't afford to lose focus. "Why is You-Know-Who keeping me alive? What's the angle? I mean, he's been trying to kill me for the past seven years of my life, so why—"

"_Stop_, Potter. Merlin, you sure do like the sound of your own voice don't you." Malfoy sighed tiredly. His words hadn't even held any malice, just a broken down sort of boredom. "I can't tell you why he's keeping you alive because I don't know, though it's a rather stupid decision if you ask me. All I know is that I've been given the lovely task of making sure you don't kick the bucket before the Dark Lord wants you to."

"Kick the bucket?"

"Yes. It's slang for—"

"I know what it means," Harry said, frowning. "It just…doesn't sound like you."

"Considering this is probably the civilest conversation you and I have ever had, I don't really think you're an authority on what I sound like, Potter."

Harry scowled, digging his nails into the iron bars. He enjoyed the way the metal felt as it scraped across his skin. "Well why you then? Why you and not some high-ranking Death Eater like McNair or LeStrange?"

"Actually," Malfoy drawled, "I out rank both McNair and LeStrange. I practically outrank everyone now."

"Bullshit."

Malfoy shrugged lazily. "You don't have to believe me for it to be true. I outrank them, and the Dark Lord asked me personally to watch over you—like it's supposed to be some sort of bloody honor."

"What did you do then?" Harry asked. "What did you do that skyrocketed your rank so suddenly?"

Malfoy looked up at him, his grey eyes tinted yellow in the candlelight. His face changed ever so slightly as a thought passed through his mind. "That's not really any of your business."

"Malfoy—"

"This conversation is over now. Go sit down."

Harry didn't move.

Malfoy's grip tightened on his wand and his mouth pulled down into a hard grimace. "Go sit down or I'll make you do it myself. Go!"

Unable to do anything but comply, Harry turned away from the bars and shuffled over to the damp lump that he'd been using as a bed. He plopped down among the tattered rags, wrapping his arms around his knees and pulling them to his chest.

Silent hours passed while Harry sat, thinking. He watched the wax of Malfoy's candle drip down until it was nothing but a nub on the stand, and he idly wondered why Malfoy didn't use a magical candle. It seemed odd that he would use one that died so quickly.

And then the thought hit him—suddenly and without reason.

"You knew about the wand." Harry's throat was so dry that his voice cracked. Malfoy stilled and slowly raised his eyes to look at Harry. They were a wide and transparent grey, like a pensieve just before it pulls you in. "That's how he was able to beat me that day. You figured out the Elder Wand's secret, didn't you?"

Malfoy said nothing. They held each other's gazes and time seemed to stretch. Then, Malfoy's mouth opened and softly he said, "I did."

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**_~xXx~_**

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**Feed the starving writer!**


	6. Day 30

**A/N:** Prepare yourself for the angst! It's not actually that bad...I just like being dramatic.

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 30 ***

"Has there been any news?"

Draco looked up from his book, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the difference in light. Potter was sitting close to the bars, his head resting against the iron while his eyes stared lifelessly at the ground. The past month of captivity had not been kind to him. His once well-muscled, lithe frame had rapidly degenerated into skeletal draping of skin and bones. Dark circles lined his eyes and dipped into the hollow of his cheeks, making him look constantly tired, though he slept through most days.

Grimacing, Draco looked back down at his book—he couldn't stomach looking at Potter like this. "You know I'm not going to tell you."

"All I want to know is if anyone has died. That's all."

"Potter," Draco sighed. "I _can't_ tell you." Merlin he was tired of this.

"Are they really watching you all the time? Even down here?"

"Even if they weren't, why would I risk it?"

The following silence was a touch too dead. It sent unpleasant chills down Draco's spine. He glanced up once more and felt his heart stutter. He'd never seen what someone looked like after a Dementor's Kiss, but right now, Potter was more than living up to his mental image. There was something broken in his eyes. Draco snapped his book shut, but Potter didn't even flinch.

"Hey," Draco said, a little gentler than he'd meant to, "let's play a game." At least that got Potter to move. He glanced at Draco sideways through cracked lenses. "Tie me up and gag me if you want. I don't care."

"Entertaining as that is, that's not quite what I meant." Draco stretched languidly and slid out of his chair. He waved his wand and a stack of boxes appeared with a loud pop. Stooping down, Draco began rummaging through a pile. "Let's see, I've got Wizard Snaps, Chess, Mandras and Mice, and Hungry Hungry Hippos."

More silence.

Draco turned back to see Potter staring at him full on now. "What?"

Potter's lips quirked. "You have Hungry Hungry Hippos?"

"I'm glad you were paying attention."

"But that's a muggle game."

Draco snorted, pulling the box from the stack. "You lot are quite judging you know that? It's not like you and I grew up in different universes."

Potter's face was annoyingly blank. "Ron didn't know any muggle games."

"Ron's also an idiot."

Potter gave a short, closed-mouthed laugh. "You used present tense. Does that mean he's alive then?"

Draco glared back at the other boy. "Or it could just be habit." He unlidded the box and pulled out the board and marbles.

"Can I be red?"

"No."

Potter huffed. "Why not?"

"Because I'm always green, and you have to play across from me." To make his point, Draco set the board down against the base of the bars and poured the marbles out onto the surface.

Potter wrinkled his nose. "I don't want to be pink."

Draco rolled his eyes. "What are you, four? Do you want to play or not?"

Sighing, Potter slid his right hand through the bars and held it over the pink hippo's lever. Draco tried not to notice how thin his wrists were, or the way his fingers were shaking. Instead he busied himself with dividing the marbles evenly between the side slots.

"Ready?" Draco asked finally, rolling the final marble around between his fingers.

Potter nodded.

Draco threw the marble down and both of their hands jolted. The still stagnant air of the dungeons was suddenly filled with the clacking of plastic against plastic. Marbles flew across the red board only to disappear moments later. As it turned out, Potter played a lot like he did. There was no senseless beating of the levers—he waited and watched, and when an opportunity arose, he struck.

The game was close. Every marble that Draco managed to grab was immediately followed by a retaliation by Potter. They were down to three marbles now. Two. One.

The clacking stopped.

Draco blinked and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He glanced up at Potter. "I won?"

Potter gave him an odd sort of look. "Are you asking me?"

"No, it's just," Draco paused, his brow furrowing, "I don't think I've ever beaten you at anything before."

"So?"

"So?" Draco laughed, and it sounded oddly loud in his own ears. "So I finally beat you and it's—Merlin—it's at Hungry Hungry Hippos. Of all the ridiculous things to beat someone at…" Then Draco thought of something. He eyed Potter suspiciously. "You didn't…_let_ me win, did you?"

"Why on earth would I _let _you win?"

"I don't know—trying to butter up your captor so he lets his guard down? Feeling disturbingly ambiguous about the very person you're supposed to hate, maybe? Romance novels are always crawling with that sort of thing."

Potter made a face. "You read romance novels?"

Draco shrugged, unbothered by the disgusted tone in Potter's voice. "Pansy likes them. She—" A pang of agony surged through Draco's chest and his mouth stopped. It was strange. Sitting here with Potter, he'd almost forgotten…

The silence seemed to stretch the air, making it thin and hard to breathe. Potter's nail was scraping against one of the iron bars. "It wasn't me, you know," he said after some time.

"I know," Draco replied, nodding distantly. His throat felt tight, like it was trying to choke him with his own words. "It was friendly fire. We were on the field and she broke from the line. She was so small…Carrow must not have seen her…"

"Or he did, and he just didn't care."

Draco glared up at him, his eyes burning. "Don't you dare say that. Pansy's death _meant_ something."

Potter shook his head, and then looked at Draco with those brilliantly green shattered eyes. "Nobody's death means anything. It's just death, and it's ugly and wrong, and you try to tell yourself it's not even as the smell of rotting flesh is making you sick. Don't act like you don't know. You were there. I remember seeing you. You were there on the battlefield at Hogwarts that day, and I hardly recognized you because your hair was red with blood and your face was so smeared with dirt that I thought it couldn't possibly be you. But it was you. It was. I saw you out there, cradling Crabbe in your arms and trying to stuff his entrails back into his stomach. You were screaming—screaming so loud but nobody even looked at you—"

"Stop it, Potter! For Merlin's sake, stop! I lived through that day once, and that was enough! Don't you ever speak of it again, understand?"

"Malfoy—"

"Do you understand?" Draco thundered with such force he felt his head spin.

Potter didn't move. His face was as cold and blank as stone. "Not talking about it isn't going to make you forget."

Draco's wand was out faster than either of them could blink. A beam of blue light shot out from the tip and hit Potter straight in the chest. It knocked him back and he hit the ground with a solid thud. The blue light wrapped itself around Potter's body like a cocoon, pinning his limbs together and stifling all sound. The Gryffindor didn't fight it this time, however. He just laid there, still and completely silent.

Huffing, Draco picked himself up. He reared his foot back and slammed it into the Hungry Hungry Hippos board. The game went flying, white marbles shooting out like a bursting star. It landed with a loud clack, the pieces of plastic cracking under the strain of the fall.

Draco threw himself back into his chair and picked up the top book from his pile. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't manage to read a single word all night.

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**_~xXx~_**

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**Feed the starving writer!**


	7. Days 31-36

**A/N:** This chapter was really hard to write for some reason. But in the end I think it turned out ok :)

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Days 31-36 ***

Draco didn't sleep well after that. Every time he drifted off he would fall into the same dream. He would be there on that battlefield, hexes and curses flying over his head while bodies fell around him like flies. It was inescapable, like a black hole sucking him in. He was always running across that field, his feet slipping on the blood soaked ground as he tried to get anywhere, anywhere, anywhere but here. Mud would splatter across his face as the ground near him exploded, and he could hear himself cry out as he saw Crabbe catapulted back.

That was usually when fear would jerk him awake and leave him choking on oxygen in the darkness, hot tears streaming down his cheeks. But what always followed was worse. There was a moment, just between the dream leaving and reality setting in, that Draco would have no clue where he was. The dungeons were very different at night. Without the warm heat of a fire, the air took on a deathly chill, and the inky blackness was so thick it seemed to seep into Draco's eyes and fill them. And he was like he existed somewhere beyond the realms of skin and bone in a place where there was nothing but his terror to consume him.

It was always Potter's eyes that brought him back from that place. Even in the dark, he could feel those piercing green eyes splitting through the molecules between them. Draco hated it—he hated being seen like that.

It didn't take long for Draco to start brewing Dreamless Potions again—he was familiar enough with the recipe to do it from memory now. They made him more tired than usual during the day, but lethargy was something he could deal with.

Dealing with Potter's nightmares, however, was a whole other monster. He'd never heard such heart-shattering sounds escape another person before. He would cry and scream and writhe around like a man possessed, and no matter how Draco yelled at him, Potter never woke. It was maddening.

Silencing charms would work occasionally, but more often than not Potter's magic would break through them. In fact, Potter's magic could do a lot of strange things while he slept.

One time, Draco looked over to see Potter's body floating in midair, while another time he watched his hair go through a myriad of florescent colors. He'd never seen anything quite like it, at least, not in anybody as old as Harry. Sometimes children, especially those who didn't grow up in the wizarding world, were wont to have extreme outbursts of wandless magic. They had no outlet for the magic in their blood, so it would build up in their systems until it was too much for their bodies to contain. Once they entered school though, and started using a wand regularly, the outbursts would become fewer and farer in between, until eventually they went away completely. After a fair amount of training, some wizards were able to maintain a minute level of the ability, but even then spells could only be cast once every few months or so. Harry's fits happened weekly.

It wasn't normal.

Draco knew he should tell someone—the ability to use wandless magic was definitely something that the Dark Lord would be interested in—but somehow that particular detail always seemed to slip his mind during his weekly reports.

"He mostly eats and sleeps," Draco would usually say.

Driscoll, the man in charge of relaying all prisoner reports to the Dark Lord, would then narrow his cold dark eyes and ask, "Does he speak?"

"Rarely."

"To you?"

"He prefers the wall's conversation over mine."

Driscoll, whose mind was in every way bounded by the harsh lines of reality, never quite knew how to react to Draco's sarcasm. He would simply purse his lips and jot down a note in the journal he kept.

"Any escape attempts?"

"None." Which Draco thought was odd even though he'd never said so out loud.

"Physical stability?"

"Before or after you nearly beat him to death?"

At that, Driscoll would merely raise a dark brow and continue down his list. "Mental stability?"

"See aforementioned note about conversing with walls."

"You're a very odd boy." Driscoll would say, with only a hint of condemnation. "Nothing at all like your father."

This topic had come up enough that Draco found himself no longer affected by it. He would simple roll his shoulders and say, "Thank you," because no one had ever really liked his father, so he figured it must be a compliment.

More often than not, he and Driscoll would part ways after that. Driscoll would go off and do whatever it was that mid-ranking Death Eaters got to do, and Draco would be left to return to the dungeons…and to Potter.

Today was no different.

Draco trudged down the final steps to Potter's cell, pausing just before the corner that would put him in sight of the prisoner. He drew himself in, deep into the cold aristocratic composure that his mother had trained him in since before he could walk. It sank over him easily, like slipping into a well worn glove. He stepped forward, and Potter's eyes were on him, as if he'd known Draco was there the entire time.

"Enjoying the view, Potter?" Draco briskly made his way over to his chair. The leather creaked as he sank down into it.

"On the contrary, seeing you always makes me wish I was blind."

Draco merely snorted and picked up one of the books from his pile. He didn't feel like doing anything to Potter today.

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**_~xXx~_**

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**Feed the starving writer!**


	8. Day 39

**A/N:** Have I mentioned yet that I really dislike this new filter system that ff has now? Sighs...

A couple lines in this chapter were influenced by/stolen from Sherlock Holmes. The movie with RDJ, not the BBC show...which I love equally if not more...

Another side note! Make sure to recognize how long it's been since Harry's been captured. These chapters could easily seem jarring if you're not aware that it's been over a month since Harry was thrown in the dungeons. A month is a long time! So just keep that in mind as you progress through the story :) I think the character growth will come across much better that way (this now marks the end of my silly rant).

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 39 ***

"Any deaths?" Potter asked. Potter _always_ asked. Draco had done everything he could think of to try and get Potter _not_ to ask. He'd choked him, stretched him, burned him, cut him, poisoned him—everything. After a while, Draco had settled on simply ignoring him, and much to his surprise, that seemed to annoy the self-righteous Gryffindor prat more than anything. And, oh, how Draco did enjoy those agitated little huffs Potter didn't think he could hear.

But today was different.

Draco frowned as he snapped his Daily Prophet straight. He stared down at the name _Rubius Hagrid_ with something akin to bile bubbling in the back of his throat. There was nothing for it, Draco knew—he'd always hated the man after all—but even so, he was keenly aware that the half-giant and Potter had been…close. As gingerly as he could manage, Draco folded the paper and set it down next to his chair.

He felt odd—sort of light headed, like he was about to drift off. Why did Potter always have to ask him that question? Draco had never once answered him, and still not a day went by without those two words spilling over Potter's lips. He hated it. He hated the pathetic way Potter's voice always cracked when he asked. He hated that it had started to become hard not to answer.

"Do you want to play another game?" Draco asked suddenly.

Potter's head rose from the cradled nook between his arms and knees. His green eyes seemed oddly calm today. "You broke the last one."

"Well I have more." Draco pulled his wand out from behind his ear and summoned his stack of games—sans Hungry Hungry Hippos. "How about Mandras and Mice?"

"Too violent."

Draco felt his lips pucker as he realized that pretty much eliminated all of their options. Chess was no less violent a game than Mandras and Mice, and Potter wouldn't be able to play Wizard Snaps properly from behind bars. He stared at the pile silently, somehow ashamed that he had nothing else to offer.

"Do you have a deck of cards?" Potter asked quietly.

"Cards?" Draco leaned forward in his chair. "Like tarot cards?"

"No, like a deck of _playing_ cards."

What sort of cards were meant to be played with? A creation of the Weasley twins perhaps? It was only when Potter started laughing that Draco realized he hadn't responded.

"Let me get this straight—you have a game like Hungry Hungry Hippos, but you've never heard of a deck of playing cards?"

Draco grimaced in response.

"52 cards? Hearts, diamonds, spades, clovers? None of that means anything to you?"

"Are you quite finished?"

Potter laughed again, his teeth a flash of white in the dimness. "It's just funny is all."

"What is?"

"You, I guess." Potter shook his head before pushing himself up to his feet. He teetered for a moment, wavering on his now frail legs, and Draco felt his own thighs go tense beneath him. Slowly, Potter made his way over to the bars, and sank back down to his knees. "It's almost cute in a way."

Cute? Draco shifted uncomfortably as Potter's eyes refused to leave him. "Are you feeling alright? You seem a bit…"

"Lucid?"

"I was going to say manic. Possibly verging on—"

"—Luminous?"

"Psychotic."

"I've never known you to give such lavish compliments."

Draco raised a brow. "You're also very keen on L-words today."

"I have a lot of free time on my hands. I've decided to theme my days."

"And sarcasm—the sarcasm is new."

Potter smiled again, but there was something overwhelmingly broken about it. He leaned his head against the bars, the scratched lenses of his glasses scraping against the metal. "I suppose this is all starting to seem a bit funny to me now."

Draco swallowed against the dry lump that seemed to have lodged itself in his throat. "What do you mean?"

"You. Me. Everything. All of it. We're both here, day in and day out, and nothing ever happens. I don't even know how long I've been here anymore, and I find myself forgetting that time is still moving. Days, hours, minutes—they don't exist for me anymore—I've slipped out of time and I've fallen into this place where everything's stopped. And I hate it. Dying like this…I always thought that the end would be brief—that I would just be in the wrong place at the wrong time and everything would go black and that would be it. Not this. Not this withering slowness where I can feel myself wasting away to nothing."

"I fail to see how any of that is funny," Draco replied softly.

"Yeah, well, you've always lacked a sense of humor anyway." Potter said the words flatly, as if he didn't have enough energy to put malice into them.

Uncomfortable silence hung between them. Draco wished that Potter would move away from the bars so that he could forget this conversation ever happened and go back to his reading. His books never made him feel like this—like he was back at Hogwarts and the battle was just about to begin, and everyone was still acting brave because they didn't know what horrors the next hours would bring. Draco had never been brave though…Snape had taught him better than that.

"I'm not an idiot you know," Potter said, his voice now rough and low.

Draco wanted to disagree, but he didn't.

"Someone died today."

Stiffness struck through Draco's nerves like a jet of electricity. He doused the reaction not a moment later, but that moment was enough.

Potter's eyebrows drew together, creating a dark crease in between. "Someone died today, and you wanted to play a game with me." He paused, as if the words confused him somehow. "Why?"

Draco's heart beat soundly against his ribcage once. Twice. Three times. "You think that someone died, and you're asking me why I wanted to play a game with you?"

"Yes."

"Why aren't you asking me who died?"

"Because I don't want to know," Potter replied soundly. "And even if I did want to know, you wouldn't tell me."

"That never usually stops you from asking."

"I've gotten smarter." Potter's eyes narrowed. "Why are you avoiding answering my question?"

Draco's shrug felt stiff. "Because I'm on this side of the bars, and you're on that side. I don't have to answer your questions."

Potter hummed—a small, accepting sort of noise—and looked away. The sound traveled straight down Draco's spine, settling into something hot and acrid in his stomach. He felt oddly annoyed, though he hadn't the faintest clue why.

"What does it matter to you why I wanted to play a game anyway?" Draco asked, hints of acid lacing his tone.

Potter's eyes flicked back up. "It doesn't matter to me."

"Then why did you ask?"

Air filled Potter's lungs, and Draco watched as his chest slowly rose and caved in again. "I have no idea."

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**_~xXx~_**

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**I crave reviews like a girl craves chocolate! And considering that I am a girl I am now craving both...*runs off to stare at email and eat oreos***


	9. Day 40

**A/N:** And thus starts more angst. Very very veeeeeery mild mentioning of Snaco (which is one of the most hilarious shipping names imo).

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 40 ***

Draco yawned, stretching out over the arm of his chair. The curved leather pressed pleasantly against his spine, and he felt some of the tension in his muscles ease with each soft pop of his vertebrae. Another day gone—another day wasted.

"Hey, Malfoy?"

Draco's head turned lazily, acknowledging Potter with the gesture rather than with words. Potter was sitting in what Draco had come to subconsciously call his "usual spot", his legs folded neatly beneath him and his hands loosely gripping the bars.

"How close were you and Snape?"

The pang that shot through Draco's heart was as harsh as it was sudden. Slowly, he pulled his limbs back into the confines of his chair, determined not to drop Potter's gaze even though it was the last place he wanted to look. It had been a long time since he'd heard anyone speak that name aloud.

"I remember seeing you and him together a lot our sixth year, and I suppose I assumed…"

Their sixth year? That seemed so terribly long ago now. So much had happened since then.

Silence stretched on around them, and Potter began to grow uneasy with it. "I guess…someone I know died yesterday and it got me thinking. I just…I was there when Snape died."

Draco felt his throat tighten, making it hard to breathe. No one had ever told him anything about where, when, or how Snape had died. All he knew was that it was by the Dark Lord's hand—the Potion's master had left for a meeting, and never came back. "How…" Draco choked on the words before they even met his tongue. He clenched his teeth together, willing the heat behind his eyes to go away.

Potter's eyes in the candlelight were like two fields on fire. "Did no one ever tell you what happened?"

All Draco could do was shake his head.

"Vold—" Potter stopped, grimacing, "The Dark Lord set Nagini after him because of the Elder Wand—he thought Snape was the master because he killed Dumbledore. It wasn't…a slow death."

Of course it wasn't. The Dark Lord had always taken a strange pleasure in Snape's suffering—maybe because Snape had been the only one who'd been able to take it.

"By the time I got to him, it was too late. He'd lost so much blood and I—I'm not even sure if I would've saved him if I could have…after what he did…"

_After what he did for me_, Draco wanted to correct. _And for you_. But the words wouldn't come.

Potter's brow pulled together in some brooding thought. "He gave me some of his memories just before he died. I don't know why though—I never got a chance to look at them. Hermione still has them I think…if she's still alive."

"She is," Draco said, so quickly he barely realized he'd spoken.

Potter's entire body gave a small jolt, and his grip tightened on the bars. It was the closest thing to hope Draco had seen in him in a long time.

"I…" Draco shook his head, "I shouldn't have said that."

"I won't tell anyone if you won't," Potter smiled softly, and Draco very much wished that he wouldn't.

Turning away, Draco pulled air deep into his lungs. His hands were shaking. Why were his hands shaking? "Why did you ask if Snape and I were close?"

The following silence seemed to last a lifetime. "I guess, it helps me to remember that I'm not the only one who's lost people that I love. And no matter what my feelings were towards Snape, I'm not stupid enough to believe that there weren't—_aren't_ people who cared for him."

"I didn't just care about him," Draco whispered, almost to himself, hot tears spilling over his cheeks before he'd even realized they'd formed. "I loved him." He'd never said the words aloud before. He'd selfishly held them in, thinking they were stupid and childish, and his damnable pride had stayed his tongue even when the words had put an ache in him so deep that he'd felt sick with it. And now it was too late. It was too late, and he would never…

"Malfoy," Potter's voice was a feather's caress. "I'm sure he knew."

Their eyes locked. And, really, Draco didn't understand why Potter was the only one who'd ever seen him cry.

"I'm sure he died knowing he was loved."

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**_~xXx~_**

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**Reviews are like...some great simile that I can't think of right now because I'm deathly tired lol. But they're the best! So yes! Many thanks to everyone who's been keeping up with this story so far :) I've been writing it crazy fast (quite unusual for me). You guys are such an inspiration! **


	10. Days 41-45

**A/N:** Thus begins what I'm not considering the "rough patch" in this story. Days 41-48 were really hard for me to write for some reason. I keep going back and trying to edit and re-edit but I dunno...hopefully it all comes out alright (sad face). Just to note, I've actually written up to about day 110 so I hope you guys are in it for the long haul :) I'm still going to be trying to post every couple of days or so!

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Days 41-45 ***

The days continued to drag on, slowly but inevitably. They were odd days, no doubt—much odder than the days when Harry had first been thrown down in this retched dungeon. Ever since their conversation about Snape—which Harry mentally referred to as "The Disturbing Confession"—Malfoy had started to develop a habit of performing oddly human gestures. Harry would've used the word 'kind' instead of human, but he couldn't bring himself to stomach the words 'kind' and 'Malfoy' in the same sentence. Even so, Malfoy's actions were…definitely outside the realm of normal. For one thing, Harry got a change of clothes more often now, and they weren't even tattered rags or wreaking with body oder; they were nice clothes—jeans his size and soft cotton shirts. Malfoy had also begun to conjure a stream of water every morning so that Harry could shower, and the young Slytherin would sometimes even leave his post when Harry had to relieve himself.

It was unsettling.

Harry was starting to feel comfortable, which was something he wasn't _comfortable_ with at all. And to make matters worse, Malfoy would now talk to him occasionally as well. About mindless, meaningless things: his favorite candies, poems his mother would read to him as a boy, the history of Gnolls. Harry didn't care about the history of Gnolls. Or candies. Or poems. Harry cared about the war…and what he had to do to get out of this cell. He'd been in here for far too long.

And now, he was starting to formulate a plan.

"Have you ever heard of Thonas the Thorny?" Malfoy asked as he frowned down at the book he was currently reading.

Harry sighed. "Have I ever heard about any of the people you ask me if I've heard about?"

"Really, Potter, I know Biggins was bad, but he wasn't _that_ bad."

"The man took the word monotone to a new extreme. He could've shouted 'Fire! Fire! Get out of the room or you're all dead!' and I guarantee you the only person who would've moved would've been Hermione—and she would've only done that much after she'd read what she'd just written down."

Malfoy gave a short laugh through his nose, the corners of mouth twitching upwards. He looked much nicer when he smiled like that, Harry had noticed. It smoothed out the lines of his face—made him seem younger than he really was. Harry made his way over to the bars, settling himself down beside them.

"So," he said, "who was Thonas the Horny?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Horny? Really, Potter? That's the best you could do?"

"What? It's sort of funny. It's like a pun…you know, because horns are pointy and thorns are pointy…" Harry trailed off helplessly. "I couldn't help it alright? Technically I'm still a teenager, and I have needs that I haven't exactly been able to meet lately."

That was enough to draw Malfoy's gaze. Several thoughts flickered across the twin pools of grey, but Harry hadn't a hope of deciphering them. "That's, uh…I mean, if you really need to…I—I could leave for a couple minutes I suppose." Malfoy stammered. _Actually_ stammered. Harry wished he had a recorder.

"What? Now?"

Red began to creep up into the high ridges of Malfoy's cheekbones. "If you need."

Harry pressed his lips together in a tight line, because it was the only thing he could do to keep himself from laughing. "I'm fine now, but I may take you up on that offer later."

"Right." Malfoy swallowed audibly.

"As a side note though, I can't believe you think I'd only need a couple of minutes. I'm at least a ten minute man."

"And now this conversation is over." Malfoy turned back to his book, his brow furrowed and his smile erased.

"Come to think of it, when do you have time to meet _your_ needs?"

"Over, Potter!"

A couple of weeks ago, Harry would've been hexed into oblivion for a comment like that. But now all he got was a half-hearted glare. Harry pouted, hooking his arms over his bent knees. "You're no fun."

"Luckily enough, it's not part of my job description to be fun."

Harry wanted to say that it also wasn't part of his job description to offer to leave the room so that Harry could have a good wank. For once though, he kept his mouth shut.

This could work. This really could work.

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**_~xXx~_**

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Oh Harry...mind always in the gutter. When will you learn!?

**Reviews are greatly appreciated! Not that you aren't already appreciated, you lovely reader you :)**


	11. Day 46

**A/N:** Thus begins what I'm not considering the "rough patch" in this story. Days 41-48 were really hard for me to write for some reason. I keep going back and trying to edit and re-edit but I dunno...hopefully it all comes out alright (sad face). Just to note, I've actually written up to about day 110 so I hope you guys are in it for the long haul :) I'm still going to be trying to post every couple of days or so!

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 46 ***

Harry tipped his head back, relishing the warm stream of water as it spilled over his bared skin. He ran his hands over his arms, washing away the grime and trying his best to ignore how thin he was becoming. It was really a marvel how prisoners had the stereotype of being in such great shape. But then again, Harry supposed that normal prisoners were allowed out of their cells occasionally. Harry sighed. His knees were already starting to shake from standing for so long. If his plan worked and he actually managed to make it out of here, he wondered if he'd even be able to walk a hundred metres before collapsing to the ground in exhaustion.

"Hurry up and wash your hair, Potter," Malfoy snapped. "I'm not going to keep this water running all day."

Rolling his eyes, Harry stooped down to pick up the shampoo off the stool next to him. He poured a glob out into his palm and lathered it over his scalp. It smelled nice, like raspberries and mint—so much better than the constant aroma of iron and dank stone. He vaguely wondered if this was the shampoo that Malfoy used, before quickly realizing that that was not at all a good thing to vaguely wonder. Especially whilst naked.

"Can you make it colder?" Harry asked as he placed his head under the stream. Water sloshed over his ears, effectively blocking out whatever response Malfoy may have given, but it was only a few moments before Harry felt the temperature shift from lukewarm to pleasantly cool. He shivered slightly as his body reacted to the change, goosebumps rising on his skin and making it prickle. Harry arched his spine, stretching his fatigued muscles as they were soothed by the cold.

Suddenly, the water stopped.

Malfoy cleared his throat, but when he spoke his voice was broken and raspy. "I think that's enough for today."

With a soft _pop_, a towel and a fresh change of clothes appeared on top of the stool. Harry dried off and changed quickly, somehow even more aware of his nakedness now that the water had stopped.

"So what's on the schedule for today?" Harry asked, if only to break the stagnant silence between them. "The usual quiet time, followed by mild harassment and ending with a nice dose of hexing?"

Malfoy shrugged noncommittally. "If that's what you'd like."

"Does it matter what I'd like?"

Harry rather expected a sneer, but as it happened, he received a humored smile instead. "I'd rather keep you entertained than not. I'm not sure you're fully aware of how annoying you are when you're bored."

Something jerked uncomfortably in Harry's chest at the unfamiliar warmth in Malfoy's voice. It was an oddly pleasant sort of sound. Barely aware of himself, Harry stepped towards the bars. "Can you blame me?"

"No," Malfoy replied, not unkindly. As he tucked his wand into his pocket, his grey eyes traced the iron that stood between them. "I know well enough how hard boredom can be to deal with."

Harry hummed, growing a smile of his own to match Malfoy's. "I guess I never think about the fact that you're stuck down here all the time too."

Malfoy just looked at him, saying nothing.

The something in Harry's chest jerked again, harder this time. He cleared his throat and broke away from Malfoy's gaze. "Is that why you read all the time? To keep from being bored?"

A heavy quiet fell over the room. Harry could feel it coiling inside of him, drawing his chin up and making him search for answers he couldn't hear. Malfoy was closer to the bars than Harry had ever seen him, one of his pale hands reaching out to grip the smooth metal.

"I read to escape," Malfoy said, so softly Harry had to inch closer to hear.

Harry stared down at Malfoy's hand silently. Even from where stood now he could reach out and grab it if he wanted to—he could grab it and maybe pull Malfoy against the bars long enough to get his wand. Harry's fingers twitched, desperate to move.

"Do you ever wish that you were someone else?"

The question was enough to pull Harry's attention from Malfoy's hand back to his face. Grey eyes glistened strangely in the dim candlelight. "Yes," the answer fell over Harry's tongue, unbidden.

Malfoy laughed softly through closed lips. "It's sort of funny isn't it—how the world in a book can seem so much better than ours? I mean, we have _magic_. We have the ability to do so much, and _be_ so much, and yet…"

"And yet people treat it like it's nothing." The words had just sprung up—drawn out from the sacred place Harry had allowed the last shreds of his ideals to exist.

The look Malfoy gave him was like lightning striking; it hit Harry hard, and no matter how he tried, he couldn't escape it. "Potter…I want you to know…what you said about Snape—it meant a lot to me."

Harry's mouth went dry.

"His death…" Malfoy wet his lips, his hand gripping the bar so tightly his knuckles were white. "It wasn't easy on me, and I think—"

"Malfoy," Harry interrupted. "Stop." Silence hung between them, heavy and dripping with words that could never reach the open air. _We can't do this. _Harry felt his lungs tighten, making it hard to breathe. _We can never be on the same side of the bars._

"I—right." Malfoy shook himself, stepping back from the bars. "Of course. You're right. I think I just…I think I need to sleep for a bit."

Harry only nodded and watched Malfoy retreat to the warm hollow of his chair. He lowered himself into it, curling into the arm and letting his eyes fall shut. Harry watched him for a while, not knowing why he wanted to hear the sounds of Malfoy's breaths as he fell asleep.

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**_~xXx~_**

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Sorry it's been a while btw...my internet has been down. But I plan to post again soon!

**Much love to all my readers and reviewers! **


	12. Day 47

**A/N:** Prepare your butts...

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 47 ***

To say that the past couple of days were a mistake would be a gross understatement.

Harry didn't know what had gotten into him over the past week, but he certainly didn't like it. When he'd asked about Snape, all he'd wanted was insight on what his memories might have held. What he'd gotten, though, was so much more than he'd believed possible. Seeing Malfoy break down like that…it was too much. It had kindled a heat in Harry's chest that was beginning to trouble him. He'd been here for far too long. The territory they'd started to breach…it was dangerous. He needed to get out. Now.

Tonight was the night.

Harry eyed the pile of pens that Malfoy kept beside his chair. They were muggle pens, which Harry found rather odd, but he never asked about them. He didn't want to draw any attention to them, or the fact that they could easily be reached from behind the bars by an arm and a couple extra inches of chicken bone.

After he'd made up his mind, it was very difficult to act normal for the remainder of the evening. Minutes moved so slowly, Harry was sure he'd be an old man by the time Malfoy's eyes fell tired from all their reading. But eventually it did happen—Malfoy's eyelids began to droop, and his head began to fall forward onto his chest.

It was now or never.

"Malfoy?"

Malfoy jerked awake, blinking rapidly. He rubbed his face with the heels of his palms. "What is it, Potter?"

Harry slid his hands against his trousers nervously. "Remember that favor you offered me a couple of days ago?"

Malfoy hummed, still half-asleep. "Favor?"

"You know," Harry urged, "about…leaving if I needed you to leave?"

Long seconds passed, and for a moment Harry feared that he'd blown it, but then a soft light ignited in Malfoy's eyes and Harry felt as if a weight was lifting off of him.

"Oh. Oh, right. I'll just…I'll go grab some more books from my room then."

Slowly, Malfoy pushed himself up from his chair, stretching the stiffness from his limbs, and sluffed off down the hall. Harry didn't move. He waited until he couldn't hear Malfoy's footsteps anymore, drew in a deep breath, and then counted to twenty. After that he was like a canon.

He bolted for the bars, his hand digging into his pocket for the pieces of chicken bone he'd tied together with loose strings from his blankets. Practically throwing himself to the ground, Harry jammed his arm through the opening. The first pen was easy. The second took a little longer than he'd hoped.

They were fine pens—all silver and steel. That was good. That meant they wouldn't break easily. Harry pried the pens apart, ripping his fingernails in the process. Blood smeared over the smooth metal, but he didn't care. He extracted the press bars with relative ease and chucked the spare pieces across the cell.

The door. All that was left was the door and he was free.

A few months ago, when he, Ron, and Hermione had still been traveling across the countryside, Hermione had been insistent that Harry learn a few muggle skills. He hadn't wanted to, but of course she'd made him. Thank God she'd made him. Who would've guessed that a wizard could pick locks without a wand?

Attempting to steady his breathing, Harry pressed the press bars into the door lock. _Calm. Control. Don't let yourself get too excited_. Harry's ears prickled at the sound of tumblers turning as he lifted the pins. One pin. Two. Three. Harry grimaced. One more. He just needed one more.

_Click_.

The cell door swung open. Harry stared at the open air in front of him, his brain momentarily unable to comprehend the picture without the bars. _Move_, Harry told himself. _You need to move_! Harry's legs reacted, springing him forward out into the dark halls. He didn't know the way, but he didn't care—anywhere was better than here.

His legs burned. He hadn't been able to run like this in so long, and his body had grown weak. Turn after turn after turn. When had the air gotten so cold? It seemed to burn his lungs with icy fangs as he gasped.

Right. Left. Right. Right. Left.

And then he saw it—the stairwell that lead up into the parlor. Blowing out a frantic breath, Harry sprinted for the stairs. This was it. He was going to be free. He was going to see Ron and Hermione again. He was going to be able to figure out where everything went wrong.

The snake. The cup. The crown. The ring. The locket. The diary.

Harry yanked the door open, and everything crashed to a halt.

"Oh, Harry!" Carrow's face appeared in front of him, his teeth a sudden flash of light in the darkness. "How nice of you to get that for me."

The next thing Harry knew, his left cheek was exploding with pain as Carrow's fist slammed into it. After that, everything went black.

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**_~xXx~_**

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**Dun dun duuuuuuun! I think I need to sleep now...way too tired for my own good...**


	13. Day 48

**A/N:** This has a point...trust me...if you dare. Warnings for physical violence.

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 48 ***

Harry groaned as he swam back up into the dreary fog of consciousness. The side of his face ached where swollen flesh was pressing against cold unforgiving stone and his head spun as pulsing black spots danced across the cracked lenses of his glasses. He blinked a couple of times, willing his eyes to focus on the fuzzy light in front of him. What he saw made his heart stutter painfully in his chest.

The cell. He was back in the cell.

Malfoy was pacing back and forth in front of the bars, his eyes fixed on the ground. There was something dark in his face—he looked stretched and overly pale, as if he was about to be sick.

"Malfoy?" Harry felt his voice scratch against his throat. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, willing the world to remain still around him.

If Malfoy had heard him, he certainly didn't show it. The blonde picked up his wand from the small table next to his chair, stared at it for a long moment, and then put it back down. Once more, the sound of his shoes scuffing against the stone floor filled the small room.

Harry swallowed. An odd heaviness seemed to be swelling just beneath his ribs. He could feel the beat his pulse like a dull throb, quickening with each frantic step Malfoy took. "Malfoy what's g—"

"MALFOY!"

A thundering voice boomed through the dungeons, making Harry's ears rattle. He saw Malfoy freeze, every ounce of color draining from his cheeks. Not a moment later Carrow and two other Death Eaters Harry had never seen before rounded the corner. Carrow's long face was contorted with a blind fury, his black hair jutting out in wild patches from his head. He crossed the space between him and Malfoy in the shortest moment Harry had ever lived. In a blurred whir of motion, Carrow grabbed Malfoy's robes, pulling him in close. Malfoy's hands wrapped around Carrow's wrists, and the world seemed to go very still.

"You stupid, insufferable boy," Carrow seethed. And suddenly Malfoy was on the ground, and Carrow's leg was reeling back, the toe of his boot hurtling forward to slam into the Slytherin's sternum. Again and again and again Carrow kicked and Harry swore he could hear the sickening sound of bones cracking. Malfoy's agonized screams filled the chamber, but that didn't stop the other two Death Eater's from joining in.

Adrenaline shot through Harry's veins like the lash of a whip. He sprung to his feet, hurtling himself at the bars. "Stop!" he screamed. "Stop it!"

Malfoy's cries rang in his ears until Harry's very bones vibrated with the sound. Blood, wet and crimson was beginning to pool around Malfoy's body, shimmering like red glass in the candlelight. They were going to kill him. "Stop! Stop, please!"

Harry had almost escaped, and they were going to kill him.

"STOP!"

Magic pulsed through the room, and like a bullet from a slingshot, one of the Death Eaters was rocketed back. His body slammed into the stone wall, his head hitting with a sharp crack before he crumpled to the floor in a heap of black robes.

Everything stopped.

An icy silence filled the chamber, broken only by Malfoy's half-conscious whimpers. Carrow stood very still, his shoulders rising and falling rapidly with each breath. In the next instant he was rounding on Harry, wand drawn and fire burning in his obsidian gaze.

"Give me your wand!" Spittle foamed around the edges of his lips and he hissed the words through bared teeth.

Harry sank to his knees, gripping the iron bars so tightly his hands hurt. Blood. There was so much blood. Malfoy could've been that same boy he'd seen on the battlefield that day, frozen and helpless on the ground while the world fell to chaos around him.

Carrow reared his foot back and kicked the bars. They rattled violently, shaking Harry back into the present. His eyes rose slowly, hatred coiling in his stomach with each inch of the man his vision exposed. If not for the bars—

"Your wand!"

"I don't _have_ a wand," Harry spat.

"Don't lie to me you little worm! You think I sent my own man flying through the air? Give it to me now!"

"I didn't do anything!"

"Carrow," the other Death Eater interrupted, his voice wavering uncertainly. "John…I think John is dead."

Carrow wheeled on him, his wand bursting with angry red sparks.

"I—I can't find his pulse."

A desperate sort of dread began to fill the air, and cold settled over Harry's face as Carrow left him. Brow creasing, the man crouched over John's body, muttering spells and incantations that Harry had never even heard of. But nothing happened. John never moved.

A long time seemed to pass before Carrow spoke again, but when he did, Harry felt panic rise in his throat like bile. Carrow turned, his wand raised and pointed directly at Harry's chest.

"You…you will regret this day, boy. Mark me." he whispered. "_Crucio_!"

Once more, everything went black.

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**_~xXx~_**

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So this is actually a pretty pivotal point in the story for a number of reasons. You'll understand later my sweets *evil grin* Btw a zillion thank yous to everyone who's been keeping up with this (un-beta'd, horrible grammar ridden) story so far! I hope the frequent updates have made up for the short chapters!

**Review? Pwease? I'll beg if I must!**


	14. Day 56

**A/N:** The next couple chapters will be extra short for...artistic reasons lol. So I'll probably post two tomorrow!

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 56 ***

Draco stiffened when he heard the first rustle of sheets. He kept his eyes trained on the book in his lap, refusing to allow himself to so much as glance at the bed on the other side of the room.

He only had a few precious moments left before the world crashed in and he wanted to hold onto it as long as he could. Desperately, he tried to focus on the pain that still radiated through his limbs. It stretched across every inch of him, his hands and wrists barely exposing the map of red and blue that was splayed across his skin. Every movement held its own agony—every breath its own torture. Time itself had become excruciating, but that only made him all the more aware that he was _alive_ to feel it. The blood that still pumped through his veins—it defied reality. Why the Dark Lord had spared him, Draco couldn't begin to fathom. After what he'd done…

"Malfoy?"

An unpleasant tingle ran down Draco's spine at the sound of Potter's voice. It was the first time he'd heard it since the dungeons. For some reason it made him sick to his stomach.

"Malfoy, where…" There was an uncomfortably long pause. "Where are we? Is this…is this your room?"

_How many times do I have to tell you to ask only one question at a time?_ Draco would have said. As it was, he kept his mouth firmly shut.

"Why are we in here? Why aren't we back in the dungeons?"

Silence.

"Malfoy?" The sheets rustled again, and Draco heard the soft pattering of bare feet on tile. It made him nervous for some reason, even though he knew that Potter couldn't move beyond the wards that the Dark Lord had placed. But the twenty metres that separated them wasn't enough. One hundred kilometres wouldn't have been enough. He didn't like seeing Potter standing there and having to remember that he was protected. "Malfoy, I…I didn't know they would hurt you like that. I never thought…" Potter trailed off.

Draco would've snorted disdainfully if he'd possessed the energy.

_Never thought. Never cared. Semantics. It's all the same. You had no reason to think of me._ _At least now I know the kind of hero you always claimed to be isn't the kind of hero you actually are. At least now I know that I was always right about you._

"Malfoy?"

Draco turned the page, and kept on reading.

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**_~xXx~_**

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Definitely listened to "Take Me To Church" by Hozier while writing this as well as the next chapters to come. Such interesting lyrics... :)

***Begs***


	15. Day 57

**A/N:** Hey! Just to clarify they've been moved to Draco's room :) Sorry for any confusion.

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 57 ***

"Malfoy?"

Draco didn't lift his head from the back of the chair. He continued to stare up at the ceiling, trying to count the number of stones. So far he'd developed the theory that there were over forty thousand, but he wanted to make sure.

"Malfoy, you're going to have to talk to me again eventually."

_Oh_?

"Do you want me to apologize? Is that what you're waiting for?" Potter paused, the angry sound of his footsteps echoing through the room. "You know I'm not going to."

Draco sighed and pressed his eyes shut. Why couldn't Potter just leave him alone?

"Malfoy?"

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**_~xXx~_**

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You guys are the best...just so you know.


	16. Day 59

**A/N:** Last super short chapter!

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 59 ***

"Malfoy?"

Draco curled deeper into the arm of his chair.

"Malfoy, please…just say something. Anything. I can't stand this silence. I _can't_."

Good. Draco couldn't' stand it either—the aching void that was ever existent in this horrible room. But what would talking help? He was still alone. So very alone that it felt like the world was about to swallow him up whole.

"Malfoy...please...say something." Potter's voice broke. "_Please_…"

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**_~xXx~_**

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I may post again today but I've got errands to run. So maybe later tonight!


	17. Day 62

**A/N:** Woo...a slightly longer chapter! Guys I promise...day 68 is like, over a thousand words O.O. I think I'm actually going to dub it "the longest day". Ha...ha...ok onto the chapter now.

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 62 ***

"I had a dream last night."

Draco already knew—he'd heard the screams well enough. Frankly, he was surprised that the whole bloody manor hadn't heard them.

"I dreamt that Ron, Hermione and I were back in the Ravenclaw tower on the day of the battle, trying to find a way out. Everyone was dead and we had nowhere else to go. We were looking for floo powder or a broom or _something_ that could get us out of Hogwarts. We tore that tower apart. And finally we found a broom hidden in one of the student's trunks, but Ron and I were in such a frenzy that we broke it. Can you believe that? We actually broke it. We snapped the broom's handle in half like it was a fucking chopstick. I think that was when Hermione started crying, and I started to wonder if I should just jump out the window because we could hear the Death Eaters coming up the stairs. And then..._you_ walked through the portrait," Potter's voice cracked on the edge of some emotion Draco couldn't name.

"Ron had been ready though. He attacked you with the broken broom handle and you went to the ground before you even had time to get off a single spell. And Ron hit you again and again and again, spattering the walls with your blood, and Hermione was screaming at him but he still wouldn't stop. Then, for no reason at all—I didn't even think about it—I raised my wand, and I killed him. I just...killed him."

There was something acidic in the silence that followed. Draco could feel it welling up inside him, dark and suffocating. He couldn't help but turn his head to look at the other boy for the first time in over a week. Potter was sitting on the ground, his knees drawn into his chest and his back pressed against the side of the bed. He looked so much older now than he had just a couple months ago. There were deep grooves on his face at the edges of his mouth and between his brows that no seventeen year old boy should possess.

"I've...I killed a lot of people that day." Potter rested his forehead on his crossed arms. "I can't even remember their faces anymore. I don't know how to tell what's real and what's a dream. What if I'm the one who killed Crabbe? What if I'm the one who—"

"Stop," The word was spoken before Draco had even realized his mouth had opened.

Potter's head lifted. He looked around absently, as if the sound of Draco's voice confused him just as much as it had Draco. Their eyes met and held for what seemed like eternity, but neither of them dared to look away.

Draco pulled air deep into his lungs, doing his best to ignore the way his cracked ribs strained under the motion. "It doesn't matter."

"Malfoy…"

"Let it go," Draco said. "You need to let it go. None of it matters."

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**_~xXx~_**

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So my life is sort of a ball of crazy right now (in a good way though)...so I apologize if that reflects in my writing!


	18. Day 63

**A/N:** So my internet keeps randomly going out...which is super annoying. Sorry in advance if this stops me from posting as often in the next couple of weeks (I'm also moving!).

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 63 ***

It was hard for Draco to say whether yesterday had really happened or not. The few glances he spared Potter always found the Gryffindor in the exact same spot: curled up on the windowsill, staring out across the grounds. For someone who proclaimed to hate the silence, he sure kept it like the grave.

Maybe he'd finally realized the finality of his situation—of both of their situations. They were trapped here: Draco by orders, and Potter by bars. And there was no end in sight to this warped reality they now existed in. It was just the two of them here, breathing, eating, sleeping, being, while the rest of the world spun on without them. So then what was left? What did they have beyond the ornate confines of this room?

If none of it mattered…then what was the point?

Draco's eyes shifted to Potter once more. Sunlight poured in through the large window, bathing his silhouette in a swath of bright white. It made Draco feel lighter for some reason, like all the molecules in his body were vibrating so fast that he was spreading apart. He vaguely wondered if the light felt warm against Potter's skin, and if he would be able to feel that heat if his fingertips brushed against Potter's arm. Somehow he doubted it—the barrier that existed between them now seemed to be too complete to bridge. They were poisonous to one another…that much was clear now.

And yet…

This separated existence was almost harder to stand than the toxic truce they'd claimed before. Draco could feel the silence closing in, threatening to destroy what fragile stability they'd built. He couldn't stand it. It was like he'd been transported to a place where only pain and empty spaces existed, and there was nowhere to run to that wouldn't lead right back to where he started. And Potter was the only one there with him—Potter was the only one who _knew_.

So what was he supposed to do? Be alone here until the Dark Lord either killed Potter or granted him the mercy of another assignment? Do what his father said and think only of his duty? His father didn't understand that he wasn't that boy who would follow orders without question anymore. He couldn't just refreeze what had been thawed inside of him. After Snape—

Potter's head turned, and suddenly Draco's eyes were submerged in a tumulting sea of green. The breath he'd been taking caught in his throat, causing his lungs to seize. Then, the corner of Potter's mouth lifted, and Draco felt his heart stutter. So many emotions flooded though him at once he hadn't a hope of knowing what it was he actually felt. All he knew was that he couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't sit in this silence and pretend that the past two months hadn't happened.

So he would talk to Potter again, if only to keep himself sane, but that would be the extent of it. He'd learned what his boundaries with the other boy were—they were etched well enough into the cuts and swollen bruises on his skin. What had happened to him…the sheer terror of it all—he needed to push it all away: make himself forget. He needed to remember what he'd been like before all of this—burn it into his blood like a seal so that this pain wouldn't seep through the cracks.

He would talk to Potter, and he would ignore the furious light burning in the emerald depths of his eyes. He would ignore the hauntingly strung together words that struck a cord of truth Draco hadn't believed anyone else had known. And he would ignore the way it felt to have hope again.

He would talk to Potter…and none of it would really matter.

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**_~xXx~_**

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**All reviews will be beloved and cherished for all eternity :) The good, the bad, and everything in between.**


	19. Day 64

**A/N:** Yay having internet! We'll see how long it lasts...

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 64 ***

Harry awoke the next morning to the sound of utensils clanking against porcelain. The warm smell of eggs, butter, and toast filled Harry's nostrils as he inhaled, and his mouth watered uncontrollably. How long had it been since he'd had a homemade breakfast? Oh, what he wouldn't give for one of Mrs. Weasley's poppyseed muffins, hot and fresh and dripping with jam. Harry's stomach grumbled irately at the thought.

The clinking stopped.

"Are you hungry?"

The sound of Malfoy's voice was as sudden as it was sharp. Harry turned, his sweat soaked sheets twisting around his torso as he moved. Malfoy was looking at him from the other side of the room, his grey eyes dark and unblinking. For a moment, Harry wondered if he was dreaming.

Malfoy huffed, and pushed himself up from his chair. Harry could tell the movement was still hard for him. "Are you going to answer me, or should I go ahead and send the rest of this food down to the dogs?" He held up a plate in his left hand, his half-eaten breakfast still steaming on top.

"I…" Harry paused unsurely. He had to be dreaming… "You'd give it to me?"

"You're an idiot." Heatedly, Malfoy stalked forward, straight through the wards. The room flashed a brief blue, and by the time Harry's eyes readjusted to the light, Malfoy was already upon him. Heart leaping up into his throat, Harry slammed himself back against the headboard, his knees curling up into his chest.

The blonde merely rolled his eyes and set the plate down on the bed next to him. Harry eyed it warily. Could it be hexed? Poisoned, maybe?

"I didn't do anything to it if that's what you're worried about. Look." Malfoy picked up the fork and delicately folded his lips around a bite of eggs. He chewed quickly and swallowed. "See?"

Harry eyed the plate again, but his stomach quickly won over his brain. He grabbed the plate and fork and began plowing food into his mouth. Saying it was delicious would've been an understatement. The eggs melted across his tongue and slid down his throat, and the jam on the toast was fresh and bursting with flavor. Not that he had the time to properly appreciate it—he was too busy inhaling every morsel he could.

"You're going to make yourself sick."

Harry ignored him and kept eating.

Malfoy shook his head, his white blonde hair falling down to sweep against a sun-washed blackened eye. It was unnerving how unearthly the Slytherin could look sometimes. Morning light was spilling in through the large bay windows, giving Malfoy's silhouette an almost ethereal glow. He looked so different from any other boy Harry had ever seen—all pale features and painfully beautiful lines. Maybe he had Veela blood in him somewhere, like Fleur.

Harry suddenly realized that he wasn't eating anymore, and that Malfoy's eyes were on him again, one pale quizzical brow raised.

"I—uh…" Harry swallowed, his cheeks going red. "Thank you—for the food I mean."

Malfoy only nodded.

"So then…are we…talking now?"

"Are you talking like that on purpose, or do you just enjoy sounding as trollish as you look?"

Harry pursed his lips, snuffing the spark of his temper quickly before it had time to catch. Insults were better than nothing at all. Oh how Ron would cringe if he knew that Harry had actually _missed_ talking to Malfoy. "I'll take that as a yes then."

"Good for you," Malfoy smirked.

"So what changed your mind then?"

A shallow shrug lifted Malfoy's shoulders as he leaned back against the windowsill. "Does it matter?"

"It mattered enough to change you mind," Harry replied, setting the plate of breakfast aside. It hadn't sank in until that moment just how little lay between them now. No bars. No wards. Nothing. How long had it been since he'd been this close to another person?

"Touché." Malfoy's head cocked towards his right shoulder, his hair falling in a blonde wisp across his forehead. "Very well, you've pried it out of me. I'm talking to you now because it's much less annoying than not talking to you."

Harry shifted, pushing himself up into a more sturdy position. "Less annoying how?"

"Well you huff a lot for one thing."

"I…" Harry's lips didn't seem to know whether to smile or frown, "huff a lot?"

"I sit well across the room and I can _hear_ you breathing, Potter. Do you have any idea how creepy that is when I'm trying to fall asleep?"

"I hadn't noticed I was doing it."

"I'm sure you don't notice a lot of things you do." A dramatic sigh pouted Malfoy's bottom lip. "Unfortunately for me they're my constant companion."

Harry nodded as he eased the comforter back and swung his legs over the side of the mattress. He noticed Malfoy eye the action carefully, the line of his shoulders growing tense. He wished he knew what to say to smooth out that line again—to make being near him seem less dangerous than it actually was. "So," Harry stepped forward, "we're ok again?"

Grey eyes went sharp as the edge of shattered glass. "Are you off your rocker? How can there be an again if we've never been anything even remotely bordering 'ok' in the first place?"

Harry couldn't help his flinch—the venom in Malfoy's words stung more than he cared to admit. He could practically feel the other boy retreating back into that dark icy place that Harry could never breach. "But…I thought…"

"I'll admit, you did fool me" Malfoy's words cut through him like an arctic wind. "But I think we both learned our lesson about being too comfortable around each other."

"Malfoy…I never meant for anything to happen to you." And he hadn't, and it was strange because he _knew_ he shouldn't have cared. Seeing Malfoy bleeding and broken on the ground shouldn't have churned a black pit of rage in his stomach. All he should've cared about was getting out of that cell, but…something had changed.

"Yeah, well," Malfoy tore his gaze away and moved it to the ceiling. "It did." Sunlight caressed the swollen line of his cheekbone, highlighting the splay of black and blue skin that trailed down his neck into his collar. "And it's not going to happen again."

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**_~xXx~_**

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I rewrote the end of this chapter maybe a half dozen times...may rewrite it again. We shall see!

**Please review :)**


	20. Day 68

**A/N:** Welcome to "the longest day"...not actually because this chapter is particularly long, but rather because this section is going to span two chapters...oooooooh fancy.

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 68 ***

"You're looking healthier."

Harry turned from his seat by the window to see Malfoy standing by the foot of his bed, leaning elegantly against one of the posts. He was fiddling with the silver clasp on his robes, polishing the emerald eyes of the small serpentine head. It reminded Harry of the handle on Lucius Malfoy's cane.

"You are too," Harry replied, if only because it was true. Malfoy's bruises were mostly gone now—a faint blue blending gently into the ivory hue of his skin. He seemed to breathe easier as well. It was almost enough to allow Harry to forget about what had happened…almost.

Blood and black robes flashed in his mind's eye, and it was all Harry could do not to flinch away from the memory. It had taken a while—far longer than it should have—but the realization had finally set in. He'd failed—he'd put yet another person in the crossfire between him and Voldemort. But for some reason the price seemed so much greater this time. He remembered all too well what it was like seeing Malfoy alive after days of not knowing…there, lying ever so still in that wretched chair he never seemed to leave. Harry had sat on that cold stone floor of his cell, watching Malfoy's chest rise and fall, wondering if each breath was the last he would ever see. So many people had died because of him…

"You're staring at me again," Malfoy's voice broke through the haze of Harry's mind.

Harry blinked, his eyes immediately darting to the floor.

"You've been doing it a lot lately."

Butterflies flurried in Harry's stomach, and for some reason it was hard to keep his voice even when he asked, "Have I?"

"Yes."

Harry swung his legs over the windowsill, his hands gripping the edge tightly. How was he supposed to explain his intrinsic desire to reassure himself that another life had not been destroyed in his wake? How could anything he said make up for what had happened? Malfoy had nearly been beaten to death because of him, and yet, there he stood as if it had never happened at all. "Does it bother you?" Harry looked up.

Malfoy released his clasp in favor of threading his fingers through his hair. The silvery blonde strands slid beneath his hand, smooth as water. For all intents and purposes he looked relaxed, but Harry could tell there was something tense beneath his mask of calm. "I'm not sure." He took in a deep breath through his nose. "But I suppose it does seem rather pointless to let it bother me."

"Why would it be pointless?"

The shrug Malfoy gave was almost elegant, but his muscles tightened somewhere in the middle of the gesture. A wince jolted across Malfoy's features, appearing for but a second before the cool mask slipped neatly back into place. It made something hot condense in Harry's chest.

"You look healthier," Harry said slowly, "but you're still hurting, aren't you."

Again, Malfoy didn't respond.

_None of it matters_.

"Malfoy...those Death Eaters...they could've killed you."

Malfoy's nose wrinkled, as if the words disgusted him. "It was nothing I didn't deserve."

Shock rolled over Harry's body, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He searched Malfoy's face desperately, but found nothing but blank lines and hollow angles. It was unnerving. Inhuman.

Malfoy turned his head to glare at him, his grey eyes dark as molten mercury. "Don't give me that look."

Harry felt himself go very still. "What look?"

"That same superior look you always gave me back in school—like you pitied me more than you actually hated me. I'm _not_ to be pitied."

"Malfoy—"

"It was my fault!" Malfoy interrupted, his words slithering through clenched teeth. "I should have been more careful! I shouldn't have left you alone! What they did to me is what anyone would've have done!"

"Nobody on my side would've done something like that!" Harry flared.

Malfoy only raised a brow, but the simple motion was enough to an icy chill down Harry's spine. It was almost worse like this—to fear Malfoy's disagreement more than his wand. "You say that, and I'll admit that you sound convincing when you say it…but then I remember what your side did to Crabbe, and Zabini, and Bulstrode, and every other Slytherin whose blood was spilled that day. You lot think you're better than us, just like we think we're better than you, and round and round the circle goes. In the end we're all the same—we all kill to get what we want."

"I've only ever killed people who were trying to kill me first."

"That doesn't make them any less dead."

Something bitter and burning, scorched through Harry's veins. His grip on the windowsill grew so tight that he could feel the muscles in his hands beginning to cramp.

Malfoy gave a sharp snort through his nose. "Would you kill them again if you had the chance to do it over?"

"Yes," Harry replied without hesitation.

"Good," Malfoy replied with equal quickness. "At least you were certain about it then. Nobody respects a man without conviction."

"I don't care if anybody respects me."

"I think we both know that's not quite—"

"Hate to interrupt," a dark voice came from the doorway, long vowels drawn out like the scrape of a fingernail against a chalkboard. Both boys turned to see Carrow and three other Death Eaters standing in the middle of the room, matching smiles twisting their features.

Harry saw Malfoy go rigid, his left hand immediately moving to his wand pocket. "What is it, Carrow?"

"It's Wednesday."

For a moment, Malfoy didn't seem to know how to respond. He finally settled on a drawling, "Well spotted."

Carrow began to walk forward, his steps slow and menacing. "Oh, I see," Carrow's lips parted to reveal a sprawl of crooked yellow teeth. "You didn't get the memo, did you."

"I wasn't aware that Death Eaters gave memos. Sounds a little too cheery for us, don't you think?"

Carrow's grin widened into something darker. "One day, someone is going to cut that sharp tongue of yours right out of your pretty little mouth. I do hope that it's me." Carrow stepped through the wards, making the room flash a brilliant blue. "But today I'm here for him."

For a moment, no one moved. Harry felt his mouth go dry as his pulse quickened.

"What do you want with him?" Malfoy's tone was like leather scraping over the sharp edge of a knife.

"Well you know what they say: ask and ye shall receive. So, I asked for Potter and the Dark Lord was gracious enough to give me one day a week with him." Carrow laughed, and the room was filled with the harsh, brittle sound. "To…repay a debt."

Cold flooded Harry's veins. John—the man that had died in the dungeons.

Harry was going to be sick. Right here, all over the Persian carpet.

Carrow raised his hand, his fingers folding at the palm. "Come now, pet. Don't be a fuss."

"He's _not_ your pet," Malfoy hissed, his voice steady even as his knees shook. "And he's under my charge. I'm not about to just let you—"

"Oh, you will let me." Without warning Carrow sprang forward, his fist slamming into Malfoy's jaw. Malfoy stumbled back, toppling onto the bed while the other three Death Eaters marched through the wards, their wands pointed straight at Harry's chest. Carrow grinned. "You'll let me every Wednesday, from now until the day he dies."

* * *

**_~xXx~_**

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Internet allowing, I'll post the next part tomorrow.

**Do authors sound pathetic when they beg for reviews? This is me not caring :)**


	21. Day 68 cont

**A/N:** Behold, the epic continuation of day 68.

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_**~xXx~**_

* * *

*** Day 68 cont. ***

Draco didn't understand what was happening.

He felt restless—plagued by a growing tightness in the pit of his stomach that refused to settle. Nausea swept over him like a disease, heating his blood and making his skin slick with sweat. _What is happening to me?_ Draco wondered bitterly as he paced back and forth across the room. Why would the Dark Lord do this? Why have Carrow torture Potter and not him? Because of John—some lowly bottom feeder whose surname was too insignificant to remember? That couldn't be it; the Dark Lord had never taken interest in his Death Eater's lives before. It didn't make sense. Whatever part Potter had to play in his own escape, at the end of the day it was Draco who allowed it to happen…and yet here he was, pacing the hours away and not daring to think about the screams he could hear echoing through the halls.

This was not a good start to regaining control of his situation.

His room had never felt so confining before. There was only walls and stone and barriers that did nothing but make him realize how completely and utterly helpless he was. Because there was nothing he could do—no spell he could cast nor potion he could brew that would make Potter's screams any less real. He couldn't take it; standing here doing nothing. At least on the battlefield there was the jarring lurch of purpose to keep moving, hexing, dodging, cursing through the chaotic blur of bodies. On the battlefield there were no thoughts beyond what existed in the moment. Everything there was action. Everything there was instinct. This was…this was like a slow death on the sidelines, watching blood burst from open wounds as Death swung its scythe, and knowing all that pain could never be undone.

Draco pressed his hands against his ears, but muffling the sound only enhanced everything else. He could feel the phantom of Potter's agony down to his very bone marrow. His skin prickled where flesh was peeled from muscle, and his blood boiled where magic scoured the places blunt instruments could not.

It never ended. Minutes held him tightly in their cloying embrace, enormous deserts of time encased in the eternity of hours. They passed so slowly they seemed not to pass at all. By the time the darker tinges of dusk began to creep across the horizon, he'd sent his mother three letters, at least one of which he immediately regretted.

There in the empty expanse of his room, Draco couldn't seem to dam up the flood of emotions that rushed through him. This wasn't normal. Malfoys did _not_ freak out. And they didn't write pathetic letters to their mothers. And they most _certainly_ did not have psychological breakdowns upon hearing their worst enemy being tortured. He only hoped that his mother would keep the letters from his father. Draco felt a deep cold shoot through him at the thought. No…his father definitely wouldn't approve.

_Raptap. _

Draco's head whipped to the side at the sound of the knock on the door. Something sharp and volatile swept through him, and it was like swimming to the surface, not knowing he'd been drowning. Heart suddenly racing, Draco forced his steps to be calm and unhurried as he made his way across the room. The knock sounded again just as Draco reached the door. He opened it slowly.

A wet, bloody heap was pushed through the doorway, and Draco barely had time to register Potter's face before the Gryffindor fell bodily into his arms. Potter's weight as enough to bring Draco to the floor, his knees hitting the marble hard in order to shield the other boy from most of the fall.

"Merlin," Draco whispered, grimacing as felt Potter's blood soak through his robes to dampen his skin. "Potter? Potter can you hear me?"

"I doubt he can," Carrow said smugly.

Draco's eyes jolted up, his stomach dropping even as Potter gargled and coughed wetly against his neck. Carrow was leaning against the doorframe, the left side of his face speckled with dried blood. "What did you do?" Draco pressed his fingers against the base of Potter's jaw, desperately searching for a pulse. He found one, but it was fleeting. "He's bloody dying! You need to help me heal him!"

Carrow waved him off. "Potter's a strong lad. He won't die."

Ice rose up Draco's throat and sliced through his tongue. "Is that what you'll tell the Dark Lord when there's a corpse to deal with in the morning?"

The sudden anger in Carrow's eyes was sharp as the edge of a razor, and Draco couldn't help but shrink back as the man took one looming step forward. "Like the feel of the back of my hand that much do you? Or are you asking for more this time?"

Temper now thoroughly doused, Draco shook his head.

"I thought not," Carrow scoffed. "You are not to magically heal him until noon tomorrow, is that understood?"

Noon? There was no way. Draco's jaw dropped in a silent plea, "Even if he makes it that long, I can't heal wounds this severe—I don't have the training. You'll need to send someone—"

"Noon tomorrow," Carrow said again, finality cutting his voice like a hard bite. "The Dark Lord wants him to remember the pain of betrayal." His dark eyes slid down over Potter's mangled form, looking as disinterested as if he were staring at mud. With a dismissive huff, Carrow turned on his heel walked out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

The moments that followed felt eerily still.

"Malf—" Potter's voice fell off and broke, blood spilling over his lips. Hands gripped desperately at Draco's robes, fingers curling into his ribs and stomach.

And like the flip of a switch, instinct took over. He was back on the battlefield, and there was someone he needed to save. "Hush, Potter. For Merlin's sake…" Taking a deep breath, Draco pulled Potter to his feet. He supposed he should feel grateful that Potter had lost so much weight during his time here, but there was nothing comforting about the feel of the bird-thin bones cradled in his arms. Carrying Potter to the shower was far easier than it should've been, and for some reason it made Draco feel queasy in a way that the blood slithering over his bared skin never would.

He settled Potter down on the smooth, green tile, and made quick work of his clothing—not that there was much left of it to begin with. The sight that met him would've been enough to make any veteran's stomach curdle. Potter's skin was flayed to the bone in a myriad of crooked lines and mangled flesh. Most of the damage was covered by a thick layer of blood, dried and cracking like old brick.

Ignoring the heavy pang in his chest, Draco turned on the shower and gathered as many towels as he could hold. It didn't take long to saturate them with blood and water, but there was so much of both that it was hardly worth trying to make any sense of the mess. Most of the time, Draco didn't know whether Potter was conscious or not. Odd noises would occasionally escape him, but they held no semblance of words. Draco hoped that meant something good—he hoped it meant that Potter's mind was far far away from here, someplace safe where the air was warm and the sun was shining. He almost wished he could be there too, instead of stuck here in this hell of his own making.

Draco cleaned Potter's wounds as best he could, and applied the few anti-bacterial potions he'd managed to find under his sink. After that, all he could do was cover him with clean towels and carry him back to the bed.

"Malfoy…" Potter whispered hoarsely, his eyes glazed behind cracked lenses. His head fell to the side, wet hair blotching the silk pillowcases.

"Don't try to talk," Draco chastised, but the words held no malice. Gingerly, he pulled Potter's glasses from his face and set them on the bedside dresser. Quiet settled over the room as Draco hovered hesitantly beside the bed. There was nothing else he could do now except wait, and the utter uselessness he felt was like water in his lungs. Fear began creeping slowly up the back of his spine once more, stinging his skin and plucking at his nerves. Draco felt his weight shift back.

Potter's hand flailed out, finding purchase on Draco's arm and clinging tightly. The contact made Draco's muscles freeze so suddenly it hurt. He could feel the cold press of Potter's thin fingers digging painfully into his Dark Mark.

"Potter," he began uneasily, staring down at Potter's hand and not knowing at all what to do about it.

"St—stay."

Draco blinked. "Potter…I can't…"

"Please…st…don't leav—" Blood bubbled and spilled over parted lips.

In the next instant Draco was perched on the bed, grabbing the corner of a towel and pressing it to Potter's mouth. "Merlin, stop talking. I…" Potter's hand was still on his wrist. "I'll be right here, alright? I won't leave you."

* * *

**_~xXx~_**

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Ugh...so many metaphors. I should probably tone it down. Also, English needs to invent another good word for blood. By the way, for those who are wondering, this story has been given an M rating for adult sexy times...it just hasn't happened yet, and it may not for a little while. I'm a sucker for character development. But I have faith that you'll know when the time is right, just like they will ;)

**Comments, suggestions, questions etc. are all welcome with open arms by me, the starving writer :)**


	22. Day 69

**A/N:** Another short chapter. Sorry guys! This is the last short one I've written so far though! Also just to clarify this is the morning of day 69 (so it's not noon yet).

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 69 ***

That night had been one of the longest nights of Draco's life. Hours passed like the slow drip of molasses, and Draco found himself intensely aware of each second that filled them. It took two seconds for Potter to breathe in, and two to breathe out. That meant he breathed roughly fifteen times a minute, and nine hundred times an hour. So far there had been five thousand six hundred and eighteen breaths…nineteen…twenty.

Potter's hand had never left his wrist, but Draco had been thankful for it. As long as Potter held on, it meant he wasn't dead.

Twenty-six…twenty-seven.

Potter couldn't die. Not like this. The Dark Lord wouldn't have Carrow take his prize prisoner's life in his stead. Surely.

Thirty-three…thirty-four.

Potter's bottom lip trembled, and Draco could hear liquid bubbling in his lungs every time Potter tried to take a deeper breath. He was drowning in his own blood, and it didn't make sense. It didn't make any sense at all. Why hadn't Potter stopped Carrow? He obviously had the power. He'd killed John after all…

Thirty-nine…forty.

Draco glanced at the clock beside his bed. Only four more hours. Potter could make it four more hours, couldn't he? Draco's eyes shifted back to Potter's face, his stomach sinking. Yes, of course he would make it. He had to.

Only two thousand forty-three breaths to go.

* * *

**_~xXx~_**

* * *

Sorry this was so short. Dramatic effect. I'll try to post again this weekend, but I'm moving on Monday so I'm not sure if I'll have time. I'm also not sure when I'll have internet next. Comcast is all "oh sorry we're not sure if we provide you with service where you're moving" (note: I'm moving to a building in the same freaking zip code that I live in now. It's less than 10 miles away.). Ugh. Sorry...had to rant. :) Love y'all! Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far! I promise I'm going to carve out some time to reply to everyone!


	23. Day 70

**A/N:** So I'm sitting in a Panera, praising the wonders of free WiFi. I hate living without internet...

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 70 ***

"Malfoy?"

Draco stiffened in his chair, his grip on his book growing tight. He turned his head slowly. Potter was seated on the floor, just on the edge of the wards, tracing the patterns on the carpet with his index finger. For some reason, he looked very small…but alive. Alive was the part that mattered. Potter could look as small as he wanted as long as he was simultaneously alive.

"About the other day…"

Draco felt himself bristle, goosebumps covering his forearms. "We agreed not to talk about it," For all his relief that Potter had survived, the last thing he wanted to do was grudge up the emotions he'd finally managed to reign in.

"No, you _told me_ you didn't want to talk about it."

He'd told himself he wasn't going to do this—he'd told himself he wasn't going to let Potter seep through the cracks. "Same thing."

"It's not," Potter returned, anger making his words sharp around the edges. "I need to talk about it."

Draco scowled. "And what am I, your therapist? What's there to talk about?" He cursed the question after it escaped his lips. Potter already liked questions too much for his own good.

"I want to know why I'm not dead yet."

Draco snapped his book shut and flung it to the floor. It landed with a loud thump, which Draco hoped was enough to drown out the pounding of his heart. "And I've already told you, I _don't know_."

"But you know that there's a reason. You know that You-Know-Who wouldn't keep me alive for this long if he wasn't…saving me for something."

Admittedly, Draco had always tried _not_ to think of the Dark Lord's reasoning behind his actions—it was never a pleasant train of thought. "Your point?"

"My point is that it doesn't make sense! None of this makes sense!" Potter's eyes darkened to a deep emerald, not unlike the rare color of the sky just before a tornado touches down. "Carrow could've killed me—truthfully, I'm surprised that he didn't." The finger on the rug stopped moving. "He fucking strung me up on a meat hook and—"

Draco was out of his chair in whir of motion and heat. He felt every inch of his body flare, his blood growing so hot he was sure it would somehow lift him off the ground. "I don't want to hear about what happened to you!" Draco yelled, the force of his own voice hurting his throat. "Do you understand? I won't hear it!"

"Why not?" The calmness of Potter's reply only served to rake Draco's already agitated nerves.

"Because," Draco hissed through clenched teeth. "I _don't care_."

"Liar." Potter's accusation was like an arrow through Draco's chest. "If you didn't care, why would you sit with me all night?"

"You asked me to!"

"And you listened!"

Draco huffed darkly, shaking his head. He didn't have the strength to come up with a good response. Arguing with Potter was so much more tiring than it used to be. He wondered when that had changed.

"Look, Malfoy," Potter continued slowly. "I'm not trying to upset you. I don't want to fight. I just want us both to stop pretending."

The air in Draco's lungs went stale as he held it in. "What are we pretending exactly?"

Potter sighed, and it was as if he was forcibly pushing whatever pain he held inside him out through his mouth. A soft pink flushed his cheeks—the color starkly contrasting the pale shade he'd been just yesterday morning. He looked up, and their eyes locked. "That we still hate each other."

No. Draco was not going to do this. He wasn't going to go down this path—nothing good could possibly come of it. "Oh, I assure you that my hatred for you is very real."

Something in Potter's face seemed to cave. "Malfoy…"

"Stop it, Potter! Just stop! I sat with you because it's my job to keep you alive—because they'll kill me if I don't! You're not allowed to mean anything to me! You're—" Draco pressed his lips together, his eyes going wide and his stomach plummeting.

_Shit_.

Potter's eyes sparked like a candle in the darkness. He seemed to waver on the brink of something he didn't quite know how to say. "I'm…not allowed?"

"Sod off." Draco couldn't help but step back. Why couldn't he ever just keep his mouth shut? "That's not what I meant."

Potter made to move forward, but the wards gave a warning pulse of red light. Anger found itself in the creases of Potter's expression. "Why does hating me matter so much to you?"

_Because it has to_. Draco pressed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm done having this conversation with you."

"Malfoy, you can't just decide to end a conversation because you don't like how it's going!"

"Watch me." Draco turned on his heel and forced himself to walk calmly back to his chair and sit down. He picked up a new book from his stack and cracked it open to a random page. He didn't care what he read, as long as it took him away from here. Here was someplace he couldn't handle being right now.

_Remember what he did to you. Remember all the things he's done. Remember what happened to Snape. This path you're heading down can only end on the edge of a cliff. Forget about how he looks at you. Forget about the way he says your name. Forget why you were so scared he would die. Caring won't be worth it. Caring has never been worth it. It doesn't matter. None of it matters._

"Malfoy," Potter seethed, pacing in front of the ward-line impatiently. "Malfoy!" he snapped, sharper this time. "For Merlin's sake—Malfoy!"

* * *

**_~xXx~_**

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Love you guys! Thanks so much for being patient while I deal with the horrors of cable/internet companies.


	24. Day 92

**A/N:** Yup...in the Panera again. All hail the wonders of comfy booths and free wifi!

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 92 ***

"Daily activity?" Driscoll asked, journal and quill in hand.

Draco hummed, staring out the window across the expanse of forest that covered the western side of the grounds. A brilliantly red sunset was blooming across the horizon, its light spilling across the sky like blood through water. It was beautiful, in a devastating sort of way…just like the marks on Potter's skin.

_No. Stop. Saturday. Today is Saturday._

Draco tried to tell himself that over and over again—repeat it like a mantra—but nothing helped. The last three weeks had consisted solely of Wednesdays. Wednesdays was all there was anymore. Wednesdays and blood and water.

"Draco?"

Draco felt himself jerk—it was so rare to hear his first name anymore. He pulled his gaze away from the window and looked up at Driscoll. His leathery wrinkled face was pursed into a sour expression.

"Daily activity?" Driscoll repeated, his milky eyes demanding an answer.

"Right, uh," Draco wrung his fingers together. "Nothing new. He eats, sleeps, occasionally talks to me—"

A sharp scratching sound rang in Draco's ears as Driscoll began jotting down notes in his journal. "About what?"

"I—nothing. The weather, Quidditch, places he wants to travel. Mundane stuff. Nothing the Dark Lord should be worried about." He always told himself he wouldn't lie to Driscoll during these reports, and yet he always did.

Driscoll only hummed, scratching down more notes.

The urge to knock the journal out of Driscoll's hand was suddenly very tempting.

"Any more escape attempts?"

Draco paused. "You torture him."

For a moment, Driscoll's quill stopped. He stared at Draco over the bridge of his large, beaked nose. "That's not an answer."

"Yes," Draco said tightly, "it is."

Again, Driscoll hummed, his quill going right back to work. "Physical stability?"

"You torture him."

"Mental stability?"

"You _torture_ him."

Driscoll snapped his journal shut, a strange sort of expression widening his mouth. Draco would've guessed it was a smile, but seeing as he was quite sure Driscoll didn't possess the ability to smile, he didn't know what to make of it. "You mean 'we'"

Draco blinked, still somewhat perplexed by the strange thing Driscoll's mouth was doing. "Sorry, what?"

"You said, '_you_ torture him' when it really should be 'we'. _We_ torture him. Isn't that right?"

No. No that wasn't right. Draco hadn't laid a finger on Potter in over a month. He didn't have anything to do with the torture. So what if he was a Death Eater? Was he always to be responsible for the actions of his Lord? Were there no lines drawn between them? He hadn't—

_No. Stop. Saturday. Today is Saturday, and Potter is still alive._

Draco straightened, pulling his composure in like a flame draws in oxygen. "Right…of course. _We_ torture him. That's what I meant."

* * *

**_~xXx~_**

* * *

Again thanks for the patience! You guys rock...I would make you all my famous key lime pie if I could send such things over the interwebs. Alas...that should be a thing one day!


	25. Day 93

**A/N:** Rejoice! The internet people are coming on Monday! Also, mentionings of Snaco in this chapter...dldr!

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 93 ***

"You're a good healer," Harry commented, staring blankly down at his arms. Thin white lines marked his skin like a grid, but they were fainter than they had any right to be, like old wounds long forgotten. They were hardly the kind of evidence he should be baring after dealing with Carrow's twisted mind. The things that man could do with a knife…Harry shook himself. He couldn't let himself dwell on it. He couldn't let himself live only in that room that drank his screams. That person who spent his Wednesdays with Carrow—that wasn't him. He couldn't afford it to be.

"Why didn't you heal yourself like this?" Harry asked, desperate for a distraction. Sadly, Malfoy was the best distraction he could get. "Earlier, when…when they hurt you."

Malfoy shifted uncomfortably in his overlarge chair, his fingers tensing ever so slightly around the binding of his book. "Healing takes a lot of energy. I didn't have a lot of energy."

Nodding, Harry hummed. "Right." And there the silence was again, cold and aching to consume him. Harry felt sick with it. There were too many things the silence threatened to let in. He had to keep talking—he couldn't let his mind run back to that dark room soaked to the foundation with blood. "Well, uh, how did you learn?"

"My mother taught me," Malfoy answered. Then his lips quirked, pulling down at the edges. Old leather creaked as he shifted his weight in his chair. "She…used to be quite sickly."

Used to be? "What changed?"

"So many questions this morning, Potter." Malfoy's eyes flashed silver in the afternoon sun. Gingerly he closed his book and set it down on a nearby table, sighing heavily. "Snape."

The name was enough to fully reign in Harry's attention. And suddenly everything beyond the bright, quiet room faded away, and it was just him and Malfoy and the space in between. "Snape?"

"That's what changed."

"Oh." There was a beat of silence, followed by, "Were you sleeping with him?"

Malfoy actually had the humility to blanch.

Well that explained a lot. For someone who liked to run his mouth, Malfoy sure liked to avoid a lot of subjects, but none so avidly as Snape. The first time Harry had brought the Potion's Master up, Malfoy had mentioned that he loved him, but Harry had been too preoccupied at the time to realize what those words had really meant. But as the weeks had passed, Harry hadn't been able to get that conversation out of his mind. He'd always had his speculations about Malfoy's preferences—the boy color coordinated his cufflinks with his tie for Merlin's sake—but Snape was another matter entirely. Just the thought of Snape being with someone like that made Harry's stomach turn.

Preferences aside though, it was an odd pairing, especially considering the fact that Malfoy was so…Harry grimaced, not liking where that thought was headed.

"It," Malfoy's mouth opened and closed several times, "depends on your definition I guess. We were…" He seemed to struggle with finding the right word, "together a handful of times. Everything was so hectic back then—we rarely got to see each other, but…he visited me when he could."

Harry did his best to suppress the urge to gag. "But he was so old."

Instead of the brutal glare Harry expected, Malfoy just shrugged. "I suppose he was, if you notice that sort thing."

"How could you _not_ notice that sort of thing?"

Malfoy looked at him, his pale face stretched with a grief he rarely let slip. "I noticed that he was brilliant. I noticed that he saved my mother's life just as he saved mine. I noticed how much he sacrificed for other people, and how little he allowed himself to have. He was one of the greatest men I have ever known—probably _the_ greatest. Considering how I was…I was lucky that he cared for me at all."

Harry lingered on the edge of the wards, wishing for some reason that he could be closer to the other boy. He wanted to study Malfoy's expression more closely—memorize the way it softened the hard lines around his eyes. "It sounds like you and I knew two very different people."

"It sounds like you didn't know him at all."

Harry huffed, dregs of residual anger creeping into his veins. "I know that he claimed to be on our side and then murdered Dumbledore in cold blood."

Malfoy was on the border of the wards so fast that Harry was sure he must've apparated there. Grey eyes sparked like lightning in a stormy sky and Harry stepped back despite himself. "You shut your mouth!" Malfoy hissed darkly. "You have no idea what you're talking about!"

Surprise quickly contorted itself into a familiar, bitter hatred as Harry growled deep in the back of his throat. "I watched Snape kill him! I was there! _You_ were there!"

"Snape killed Dumbledore because Dumbledore wanted him to!"

For a moment, time stopped. Air caught in Harry's lungs, as if it couldn't escape. "What?"

Malfoy paused, his eyes moving haphazardly across Harry's face. He seemed somehow to look simultaneously both regretful and relieved. "Snape was a double agent—he was working for your lot the whole time."

"No," Harry shook his head. "No that's…that's not right. No, Snape betrayed the Order. We thought he was with us but he was actually—"

"No! He was in deep with us—deeper than anyone else could've gotten and he was trapped there. You think Dumbledore could've known all the things he did without someone on the inside? Snape told Dumbledore what the Dark Lord had asked me to do our sixth year, and Dumbledore made him promise to do whatever it took to protect his cover, because it was all your side fucking had on us! What happened up in the astronomy tower—they orchestrated the whole bloody thing! Dumbledore knew he was a dead man walking anyway! You saw his hand! He had months left—maybe weeks!"

"I saw—" Harry broke off, too many thoughts swirling in his head at once. "No, you're lying. Snape killed him—how do you even know any of this?"

A muscle in Malfoy's jaw tensed. For the first time he seemed to realize how close he was standing to the wards. "Snape told me."

"He…told you," Harry repeated, disbelief tinting his voice.

Malfoy's gaze fell to the rug, and Harry could see his robes trembling around his wrists and ankles. "The summer after Dumbledore died, he hid me away for a couple months," the words were slow and etched with a deep seated pain that seemed to be seeping out of his bones. And more words just kept pouring out, hot and serrated from lack of oxygen. "I had failed my mission, but Snape…he protected me from the Dark Lord—told him it wasn't my fault. I was scared, but…I think he was scared too. And we found a sort of comfort in that—it made us trust each other in ways we couldn't trust anybody else. After Dumbledore died…it wrecked him, Potter. Dumbledore was the only man who knew what he really was. _Who_ he really was. And in an instant that was gone, and he had no one except me. And some fucking replacement I turned out to be…" Malfoy's eyes jerked away, glistening wetly in the sunlight. "He died," Malfoy's voice cracked, "and there was nothing I could do to stop it."

"But why?" Harry pressed. "Why would he have been a double agent for our side? He hated me. I _know_ he hated me—I saw it in his mind. And he hated the softness of Dumbledore's politics, and he hated muggles as much as any other Death Eater. What reason would he have had to help us?"

Malfoy looked at him. "Didn't you say he left you some memories?"

Harry's stomach went cold. And like the flick of the first domino, the pieces started to fall.

_Look at me_, Snape had said.

"There was only one thing in this world," Malfoy said softly, "that Severus ever loved."

* * *

**_~xXx~_**

* * *

Sorta getting into some canon stuff here finally. I'm pretty sure the chapter about Snape's memories is my favorite chapter in the entire series. It just explores so many emotions. The movies did a great job with it too (ugh Alan Rickman's performance...so freaking great!), but I did always wish that the gravity of what Snape did would've been given more attention in the books. Not that it was brushed over per say, but I feel like we didn't get to see much of Harry's reaction to it beyond 'welp I guess I was wrong the whole time...guess I need to go die now'. So I'm going to try and explore that a bit more in this story (unless people don't want me to). Anyway, I'm rambling. See you guys soon for the next chapter!


	26. Day 94

**A/N:** Look! Another chapter! More warnings for Snaco references.

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 94 ***

Yesterday had been a lot to filter through. It didn't quite seem real. If what Malfoy had said was true, and Snape really had been a double agent…well then that changed…something. It had to change something, didn't it? But no matter how hard he tried, Harry couldn't wrap his mind around it—without any proof of the things Malfoy claimed Snape had done, how was he supposed to believe anything other than what he'd seen? But the memories…maybe the memories…

Harry's eyes lifted, zeroing in on Malfoy's lithe form, draped elegantly across the sofa. Of course the damn ponce was reading _again_.

"What are you going to do when you run out of books to read?"

Malfoy didn't even look up—he just sat there with that same bored, smug look on his face. "It's impossible to run out of books to read, considering the sheer number that has accumulated over the centuries and the unfortunate human handicap of only being able read as fast as our eyes will allow us. And besides, with you around I barely get any reading done at all."

Harry scoffed, slinking up to the edge of the wards. It was a place he'd become intimately familiar with over the weeks. He rolled his shoulders, accumulating himself to the slightly charged tingle of magic just out of reach. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you like the sound of your own voice."

"Said the pot to the kettle."

The bright sound of Malfoy's laughter filled the room. It made Harry's chest feel oddly bubbly.

"Someone's feeling sassy today," Malfoy said between breaths.

Harry shrugged, scuffing his feet against the carpet. "Someone's feeling bored."

"Would you like a book?"

"I'm not much for reading," Harry said, crinkling his nose. Even if he was, the types of books Malfoy read didn't sound particularly appealing. _The Wars of Goblins and Dwarves: A Complete History_, _Fundamentals of Arterial Magic_, _Mobgobber's Book of Sleeping Potions_, blah blah blah, textbook rubbish. Harry would've much preferred a quill and ink for doodling.

"Heathen that you are." Malfoy unfolded himself from his chair and made his way towards the wards, still clutching his book in his left hand, his thumb stuck in the pages to hold his spot. He stopped mere inches from the edge, an unencumbered smile compressing his cheeks. Harry wasn't sure if he'd ever seen Malfoy smile like that before. He stared down at his mouth, brows drawing together as he studied the foreign stretch of muscles. "What do you want then?" Malfoy's lips were as plump and pink as an engorged grapefruit.

"Would you mind…talking to me more about Snape?" Harry winced right after he asked. He'd meant for the question to sound casual—friendly even—but all that had come out was hopeful desperation.

Malfoy's smile fell with Harry's stomach. "We shouldn't have talked about him in the first place. If someone had heard that I knewwhat Snape was—"

"It's not like that," Harry grappled, aching to step forward but unable to make the move. "I don't want to talk about…anything like that—nothing about the war."

Malfoy's eyes narrowed, but he wasn't walking away.

Wringing his hands, Harry pressed on. "I want to talk about…your relationship with him."

That seemed to set Malfoy back a few steps. It took a minute for him to finally ask, "Why?"

_Because I want to try to understand this version of him that you knew_. "I'm curious?" _And because talking with you is the only thing that can make me forget that Wednesday is coming in two days_. "Mostly about how it happened, I guess."

"Because we were both men?"

Harry felt something in his chest tighten. He really wished Malfoy's eyes weren't so unnaturally silver in the sunlight. "Because he was a teacher."

"I was…we were…" Malfoy twisted his neck to look back at the door. Darkness crept into his features, lengthening the sharp lines of his face. "Can we sit somewhere where I can watch the door?"

All Harry could do was nod blandly, not having the faintest clue where Malfoy meant for them to sit. In one long step, Malfoy crossed the wards, and Harry shuddered as he felt the Slytherin's breath tickle his nose. It had been a long time since he'd stood this close to someone who wasn't actively trying to kill him. It felt odd—almost outside the realm of reality. Warmth radiated from Malfoy's robes in pulsing waves, and Harry felt a strange electrical fluttering down the length of his spine.

"Come on then," Malfoy snapped, apparently oblivious to the fact that Harry had been, rather obviously, staring. Malfoy pressed his hand flat against Harry's chest and pushed him back towards the bed.

Harry fell to the mattress heavily, mouth dry and unable to swallow. What the hell was wrong with him all of a sudden?

Malfoy took a seat on the bed next to him, his eyes glued on the door. Huffing, Harry pushed himself into a comfortable position, running his fingers through his hair and trying not to breathe in the soft spicy scent of Malfoy's cologne.

"I was an idiot," Malfoy said suddenly, breaking a silence that Harry hadn't realized had held him so completely.

Harry blinked. "You still are an idiot."

Malfoy glared at him askance, but something in his shoulders seemed to relax ever so slightly. "Said the pot to the kettle."

"Oh you're so hilarious," Harry drew out the vowel, rolling his eyes dramatically.

"I'm glad that you're finally acknowledging my talent."

"You say talent, I say assholeness."

"Assholeness isn't even a word."

"Isn't it? Does that mean I get the credit for coining it?"

Malfoy smirked. "Potter, you're ruining the sullen mood this conversation was supposed to have."

"Right," Harry's smile faded to a whispering curl. "But…why does it have to be sullen?"

One of Malfoy's brows flicked up. "Isn't it obvious?" And Harry knew the answer without having to ask. _Because he's dead_.

"But don't you think that—I don't know—don't you think that it…belittles his memory somehow to always be sad when you think of him? Things may be different now, but you still have happy memories of him, don't you? Why can't those memories just stay as they are."

Malfoy's gaze had grown hard and distant. "Because," he said, his voice wavering, "remembering those things just makes me miss him even more." His Adam's apple bobbed, the pale skin rippling as the knot of cartilage slid up and back down again. "But for some reason…for some reason…"

Harry leaned in closer. "For some reason what?" he asked, even though every instinct screamed at him not to.

"For some reason…" Malfoy pressed his hands together and steepled them beneath his nose, growing very still. The moment fell into a quiet so fragile Harry didn't dare breathe. "For some reason when I talk to you, it doesn't hurt as much anymore."

Harry's heart jolted so violently he felt himself flinch. _Ignore it. Ignore the words and push them out. Don't let them seep through the cracks._ "Malfoy…"

"Anyway," Malfoy huffed, his hands still pressed together beneath his nose, "As I was saying before, I was an idiot back in school. I've always known what I was—what sort of company I preferred to keep—but even so, trying to pursue a teacher was insanity. I've no idea what I was thinking at the time. All I knew was…Merlin," Malfoy's head bowed, his fingers moving to thread through his pale hair, "All I knew was that he was the most brilliant man I'd ever met."

Humor sank into the lines of Malfoy's face as he lifted his head back up. "That coupled with the fact that he didn't give two fucks about who you were pretty much made him the sexiest bloke alive."

"Glad to know your hatred for me had such a dramatic influence on your love life."

"I remember going to his office during our fifth year," Malfoy continued, blatantly ignoring Harry's remark, "and practically throwing myself at him. And—Merlin—he just brushed it off like I was an annoying fly that he couldn't be bothered to swat. He told me I was being ridiculous—that he'd always thought I was smart enough not to let my hormones get in the way of my better judgement." He took a deep breath in through his nose and pushed it out his mouth. "I was headstrong back then, and prouder than I had any right to be. So when he rejected me I was angry and embarrassed, and like a child I took it out on him in every way I could possibly think of. After my father was…" As if sensing the sudden surge of Harry's pulse, Malfoy forced his lips shut, an ugly grimace shaping them.

"I tortured him the entirety of our sixth year—because I was angry at him, and angry at myself. For not being _there_. For not being old enough; strong enough; smart enough; Merlin, just…enough."

Harry felt something warm inside him stir at the sound of his own fears somehow spilling over Malfoy's tongue.

"He could've _helped_ me. He could've helped me, and not just because he'd made an Unbreakable Vow, or because he had to protect his cover, but because he cared for me. I know that he did, even if it wasn't in the way that I wanted. But when it came down to it, I didn't…I couldn't…" A wavering tremble was starting to betray the emotion in Malfoy's voice. He tried to clear his throat against it, but Harry could hear it all the same. It was the sound of a heart being torn, slowly, in half. "And then he killed Dumbledore…and all I could do was watch as the last remaining shreds of hope died in his eyes. We ran, and he took me with him. I don't know why he did—I should've been the last person he wanted with him then. I remember standing in that dingy little living room of his safe-house, the smell of mold making the air acrid, and watching Severus fall apart like a house of cards. Then he marched right up to me and kissed me. His lips had been salty and wet because he'd been crying, and I was so scared all I did was stand there and let him do it. I remember him asking me: _Is this what you want_? _Death and pain and every other evil thing that follows me where ever I go? Is this what you dreamed it would be?_ I don't remember what I said, or if I said anything at all. All I remember is hugging him—clinging to his robes like I used to cling to my mother's skirts when I was young—and letting him envelope me. That was the first and last time I ever saw him cry."

Small, silent tears slipped down the curve of Malfoy's cheeks. Almost without thinking, Harry reached up, swiping the pad of his thumb along Malfoy's jaw where the moisture had pooled. He froze in the middle of the gesture, his mind seizing with a panicked moment of _What the hell did I just do_? Malfoy turned to look at him, not angry, or confused, just…contemplative. Slowly, Harry withdrew his hand, rubbing the wetness from his thumb into his palm. He could feel a slow wave of heat rising into his cheeks.

"Thank you," Malfoy whispered.

Harry swallowed thickly, his mouth suddenly very dry. "For what?"

Malfoy shrugged, and somehow made the gesture seem elegant even though he was shaking. "For listening."

* * *

**_~xXx~_**

* * *

Yay for progression! This chapter was pretty hard to write, but I'm really glad with how it turned out.

**Reviews are lovely and always appreciated! **


	27. Day 96

**A/N:** A really short one...but another is right on the way.

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 96 ***

Harry breathed in.

"Two thousand three hundred and four. Two thousand three hundred and five."

He felt a mass of pain and fog surrounding him in a pit of deep black. Everything hurt. Merlin, why did it still hurt?

"Even out your breathing, Potter, dammit. Two thousand three hundred and seven."

That voice…he knew that voice.

Malfoy. And he was…counting. What was he counting?

Harry breathed in, and back out again, feeling his shattered ribs press against the fabric of his lungs.

"Two thousand three hundred and eight."

What was he counting?

* * *

**_~xXx~_**

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I actually have a little chart made of all the Wednesdays...it's sorta sad.

**Reviews are lovely and always appreciated!**


	28. Day 102

**A/N:** And we begin to see a shift...

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 102 ***

Harry wished he knew what was happening to him. If he were to put it simply he felt…odd. Though of course odd couldn't even begin to encompass the stagnant complacency that had somehow ensnared him. He seemed to be stuck in some sort of limbo—his days seemed to be looping again and again like he had been cursed to live through the same week for the rest of his life. Nothing ever changed. Eat. Talk. Sleep. Repeat. All ending in the ever invariable Wednesday, where he existed only in the form of screams and severed nerves. And then darkness would take him, and when he woke up it started all over again.

It was strange how small his world had become—broken down into fragments of emotion and habit which somehow only made the surrounding silence all the more empty. He knew that things had been different before. He knew that he'd had a life once, filled with friends and terrible adventure, but that life seemed so far in the past now that it was as if he'd never lived it at all.

To make matters even worse, he hadn't even considered trying to escape again. The thought rarely even crossed his mind. Every time it did…all he saw was Carrow's boot slamming into Malfoy's ribs…Malfoy's pale lifeless body strewn across a stone floor, lying in a pool of blood so stale it was black.

He looked over to find the blonde perched on the windowsill, a large book cradled in his lap and a bowl of grapes wedged between his feet. It had become his new favorite reading spot—because of the light, he said—and Harry couldn't deny that he didn't enjoy Malfoy being closer. Especially on Tuesdays…which was what today was.

"Do you want a grape?" Malfoy asked, glancing up at him.

Harry felt himself flush, having been caught already staring. He shook his head timidly.

"Are you sure?" Malfoy popped one into his mouth, and Harry could hear the way it burst between his teeth. "They're in season."

"I'm not hungry."

Malfoy wrinkled his nose, snapping his book shut and swinging his legs over the sill's edge. With a feline grace he leapt to the ground and made his way over to the bed. Harry merely stared at him, pressing his back firmly against the headboard as the other boy situated himself at his feet.

"Something's wrong," Malfoy said. "Tell me."

Again, Harry shook his head. "Nothing's wrong. Keep reading"

"You turned down food," Malfoy countered, as if that explained everything.

"Well spotted."

No one could roll their eyes quite as demeaningly as Malfoy—a gift he'd no doubt cultivated profusely. "I'm not stupid you know. You don't spend three and a half months with someone and not know when something's bothering them."

Three and a half months? Had it really been that long? Harry lowered his eyes to his hands where they lay clasped on his lap. He ran his thumb along the bridge of the opposing palm, forcing the feeling of it to ground him. "It's Tuesday," he answered finally.

Harry felt Malfoy's eyes leave him. It felt cold, like walking out of the sun. "I…didn't realize you were still able to keep track of the days."

There was no response that Harry could give that would fill the void that existed between them in that moment, so he pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, and dug his thumbnail deeper into his skin. How had this happened? When had this contentment washed over him? Well, no…it wasn't quite contentment was it. It was a choice. Either he was on the wrack under Carrow's knife, or Malfoy was. Whatever constants or variables were still in play, Harry knew one beyond a shadow of a doubt—if he somehow managed to escape…it would mean Malfoy's life. And he couldn't do it. He couldn't just leave Malfoy here to die. No matter how many times he told himself that there were other people who needed him, Harry knew that he would never allow himself to cross that line of sacrificing someone he…someone he…someone he what?

"It's not right," Malfoy said softly, pulling Harry out of his dark haze of thoughts. "They're not even trying to get any information out of you. What's the point of torture if you don't get anything out of it?"

Harry shook his head, a cold shiver working its way down his spine. "Carrow loves the pain. You should see the way his eyes light up when he slices into me. The first line of blood he draws is like—"

"Stop." Malfoy's hand reached over and grabbed Harry's shin, his grip hard and warm through the fabric of Harry's jeans. Harry felt himself go very still, as if Malfoy's hand was a butterfly he feared moving might scare off. "Maybe I…maybe I can talk to him."

A jolt of fear gripped Harry's heart. "No." Harry leaned forward, his fingers aching to cover Malfoy's but falling short just in time. "No, you can't. It won't make any difference."

Malfoy jerked his chin up—a mirror image of the old arrogance Harry had become so familiar with back at Hogwarts. "I can be quite persuasive when I want to be." The edge of his lips curled, softening the line of his cheek. "You've never been on the receiving end of my charm. I've been told it's impossible to resist."

"I think you've forgotten how many liars you used to surround yourself with."

"Results don't lie, Potter."

"Draco, you—" Harry snapped his mouth shut, his entire body going tense.

Grey eyes flashed like steel, and the grip on Harry's leg tightened painfully. Their gazes locked, and Harry was quite sure that it hadn't been this hard to breathe just a couple of seconds ago. His ribs felt like they were tightening in around his lungs, threatening to choke the very life out of him. What was happening to him?

But he knew. He knew the moment he realized that Draco had been counting his breaths.

Draco stood abruptly, his eyes ripping away to stare out the window. "I'll go talk to him. I've grown tired of healing you anyway." And in a swirl of black robes, he was gone.

* * *

**_~xXx~_**

* * *

Next up, Draco and Carrow chat!

**Reviews totally make my day. I may squee like a small child when I get one. \o/**


	29. Day 102 cont

**A/N:** Carrow is a pretty fun character to write; I'm glad y'all are finally getting to see more of him! Evil though he be...

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 102 cont. ***

_Draco_.

Draco shuddered as the sound of his first name spilling over Potter's lips echoed through his mind once again. He was practically racing down the halls of the manor, trying to get as far away from that sound as he possibly could. There was something wrong. His heart was pounding. His hands felt clammy. His breathing, erratic. _Draco._ Nerves fluttered violently in his stomach, as if they couldn't decide whether he was supposed to be feeling nauseous or excited. But he shouldn't be feeling anything at all. Potter saying his first name shouldn't mean anything to him. It shouldn't—

"Ah, the young Malfoy has finally crawled out of his hole. I was wondering when you'd come."

Draco stopped in his tracks, blinking. He hadn't realized he'd already reached Carrow's quarters. The man sat at a small, rotund table just past the open door, idly sharpening a black-bladed knife as his dark eyes stared at Draco. There was an ugly sort of smirk pulling at his mouth, stretching skin across high cheekbones.

"I've been expecting you for a while now," Carrow said, his voice mockingly amiable. "Though, you certainly aren't showing off your manners today. Didn't your mother teach you better than to stand in other people's doorways? Tut tut, Draco. You think she'll let me give you a spanking if I tell her?"

Heat crept into the lower ridges of Draco's neck as the image of Carrow's knife peeling away Potter's skin flashed in his mind. He stepped through doorway, toeing the door shut behind him. The click of the latch was like a clap of thunder, loud and ominous against the quiet backdrop. "I have something I need to discuss with you."

"So serious as well. And here I'd hoped you'd come to have a bit of fun." One of Carrow's brows flicked up. "This is about Potter, I imagine."

Draco ignored his twinge of annoyance at the other man's condescending tone and replied with a curt, "Yes."

"How predictable." The man returned to sharpening his knife, allowing the silence to drag into uncomfortable territory.

Draco clenched his teeth together. "If it's so predictable then I suspect you already know what I've come to ask you."

"I do."

Carrow's blade rang shrilly as he dragged the whetstone along its edge once more.

"Well then?" Draco ground out, frenzied nerves and unbidden imaginings of Potter's torture putting his patience on a short fuse. It was only the memory of how hard Carrow's fist could be that stayed Draco's tongue now. That and the knife.

"You didn't think you were going to get off that easy did you?" Carrow's grin widened. "Come now, I want to hear you say it"

"Hear me say what?"

"I want to hear you beg me for his life."

Cold settled itself like a stone in Draco's stomach. "Why?"

"Because the sound of a Malfoy begging is one of my favorite things."

"I've not come to beg," Draco replied dully.

Carrow laughed, and the sound was like gravel scraping beneath boots. "Yes you have. Now come, pretty boy, beg me." His chair jolted back with an ear piercing screech, and suddenly Carrow was standing right in front of him, pressing him back against the door.

Fear, ruthless and numbing lanced through Draco's veins as he felt Carrow press the knife to his neck. The sting of the metal bit at his skin, and the blonde could feel something warm and liquid slither down the curve of his jugular. Draco swallowed against the lump in his throat, which only served to make the blade press in harder. "No offense, Carrow, but your breath is rank. Have you considered seeing a dentist about your oral hygiene? I hear Death Eaters get great discounts nowadays."

Carrow's black eyes narrowed as his tongue slid wetly across dry, cracked lips. "If we're talking about smells, we should discuss yours as well." He leaned forward, the stubbled side of his cheek scraping against Draco's. "I can smell the stench of him on you."

Every muscle in Draco's body stiffened.

"Are you fucking him already?"

_Already_? "Don't be disgusting," Draco hissed, attempting to ignore the way Carrow's words slid down his spine like acid.

Carrow pulled back to look Draco square in the eye. Then a barking laugh burst from him, pooling hot, putrid breath against Draco's face. "You are fucking him!"

"I'm _not_ fucking _anyone_," Draco seethed. "And I'd appreciate it if you take this knife off of me and allow us to get back on topic."

"Oh, no," Carrow dragged the knife lower, blood blossoming in its wake. "I rather like you like this—your pretty red lips pouting and begging me to slice them off."

Draco disregarded the words even as they made his stomach churn. "Why are you still torturing him?" he asked.

Carrow hummed. "Almost, but not quite."

"What?"

"You're not asking the right question, Draco."

"It seems like a pretty pertinent question to me."

"What you should be asking…is why he's not _dead_." Carrow was silent long enough to let the words steep. "Think about it: how long has the Dark Lord hunted him? How many times has he tried to kill the boy? And then, after years of failure, he finally captures him and what does he do? He lets him rot in a cell with you instead of executing him like the traitor he is. Something doesn't add up. Something _changed_."

Draco's body reacted before his mind had the chance to catch up. He could feel a cold dread spreading out from his chest into his limbs, rooting him to the spot.

Carrow cackled, baring his yellowed teeth. "You poor, stupid boy. Do you really not see how connected this all is?"

Connected? Potter's face flashed in his mind like a spark. _Draco._

"I think it's high time you knew what you're really dealing with. I'll get you and audience with the Dark Lord tomorrow," Carrow said, grinning from ear to ear, "while Potter and I have our fun."

* * *

**_~xXx~_**

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Dun dun dun! An even more exciting talk coming up! Oh, and I keep meaning to say! If you guys see any errors or anything please point them out! Via PM or Review. I don't have a beta for this story so I expect there are things that I miss. Thanks!

**Many thanks to everyone who's been keeping up with this story! You guys keep me goin'!****  
**


	30. Day 103

**A/N:** Voldemort, Voldemort, VoldeVoldeVoldeVolde!

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_**~xXx~**_

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*** Day 103 ***

"Enter."

Heart thumping violently against his sternum, Draco eased open the large oaken door and stepped through. A wave of cold, sour smelling magic greeted him, latching onto his bones and baring down with icy fangs. The drawing room was barren and dark, the only source of light coming from a splay of sickly green flames in the fireplace. A tall, willowy figure, cloaked in a thick swathe of black stood in front of them, bathed in the unnatural glow.

Like the slow unwinding of a spring, the Dark Lord turned to face him. His pale skin seemed tight and thin over the sharp angles of his face, and Draco couldn't help but imagine flesh falling away from bare white bone as he spoke. "Close the door."

Draco did.

"You're looking well, Draco."

If by well he meant psychological wreck, then yes, Draco looked well. "Thank you, my Lord."

An ashen, hairless skull inclined as the red in the Dark Lord's eyes darkened to a deep crimson. "What is it that you want?"

Draco swallowed. He'd almost forgotten what it was like, being in the presence of his Lord—that feeling of unbidden, icy dread that consumed every last drop of his dignity. "I wanted to know…" Had it always been this cold in here? "Why haven't you killed Potter yet?"

The Dark Lord's face shifted as a thought slithered through his mind. "I haven't killed him because I do not want him dead," he answered simply.

Draco knew well enough that if the Dark Lord always spoke with calculating purpose—he told people exactly what he thought they needed to know, and nothing more. His word was never questioned. And yet, even still Draco could not stop the words, "Why not?" from spilling over his traitorous lips.

A spine chilling silence fell over the room. The Dark Lord had probably not been asked a question with the word 'why' in it since the first Dark Mark had been given. He stepped towards Draco, an acidic smile stretching his thin lips. "That is no concern of yours."

And that should've been the end of it. Draco should've accepted the answer, bowed humbly and left. But he didn't. Because there was nothing for him beyond this room but blood and frayed skin and hours of counting breaths. He couldn't bare it anymore. Heat flared in Draco's chest and surged up his throat. "It is a concern of mine when I'm the one healing him after Carrow rips him apart every week."

The Dark Lord swept forward in a black haze, and suddenly he was standing right in front of Draco, anger rolling off of him in palpable waves. "Remember to whom you speak, boy!" he hissed, and Draco felt his stomach clench.

"I…" Draco stepped back and fell to his knees. "Forgive me, my Lord. I just…perhaps someone else would be better qualified for the honor you have bestowed me. The healing he requires after Carrow's torture is beyond my skill."

Silence hung heavy over Draco's head, but he kept his eyes trained on the hem of the Dark Lord's black robe. A small shiver tickled across the crown of his skull as he felt sharp nails graze through his hair. "You've grown to care for Potter, haven't you."

It wasn't a question. Draco felt his heart quicken, pounding so hard against his chest he was sure the Dark Lord could hear it. He held himself very still, not daring to move lest his body speak what his mouth dared not say.

"And I suspect, he has grown to care for you as well."

Draco's vision was starting to spin, blurring around the edges as the hand on his head moved to cup the curve of his cheek. The Dark Lord's fingertips brushed against his pulse, and Draco had to clench his teeth against the bile that surged up his throat. Every inch of him began to shake as the fear settled in. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have possibly expected that the Dark Lord wouldn't see?

The Dark Lord pulled Draco's chin up. "You've done well, Draco."

Everything stopped, and Draco felt his blood run cold.

"I knew it would be you," the Dark Lord said softly, sweeping the pad of his thumb across the line of Draco's jaw. "Somehow, even before I saw him use your wand, I knew."

"Knew what?"

A thin grin spread the Dark Lord's lips. "That you're his _symbolon_."

Draco didn't move. No…no that…that wasn't possible. _Symbolons_ were just a myth—something put in romantic novels and epic heroic poems that glossed the world and idealized mankind.

"You do not think such things still exist?"

Soulmates? No, more than that—two people that were so deeply rooted together by magic that they were essentially one soul existing in two bodies. Identical magical frequencies. Draco had studied enough Arithmacy to know that every magical creature in the world possessed a unique frequency of magic—as personal and unforgeable as a fingerprint—and just as the meeting of identical physical frequencies caused destruction, the meeting of identical magical frequencies could theoretically cause an eruption of magic so powerful it could alter the very fabric of reality. But magical frequencies couldn't match—at least not anymore. That kind of magic had died long ago, in the age of Merlin and Arthur when all the links to ancient sorcery had been lost.

"Deep magic has no care of beliefs—all it cares about is balance. But really, you need not look so incensed, Draco. Such things are not as rare as all the stories have made you believe. If anything, you've been granted a marvelous gift. You are simultaneously his greatest strength and his greatest weakness, just as he is yours."

"But that's…" Draco shook his head, "that's impossible."

"Is it? You say healing him is beyond your skill, and yet you've done it every week without fail. Your magic is stronger around him. And haven't you noticed that his is stronger too? There must have been moments that you noticed magic escaping him without the need of a wand. You were there when he killed John after all."

No. No, that couldn't be why. He was _not_ a catalyst for someone else's death.

"Draco…this is why it had to be you. Because of what you are to him, he will never abandon you." The Dark Lord bent down, drawing up Draco's left arm. He pushed back the sleeve of Draco's robe, exposing the pale skin of his wrist. Hands cold as ice stroked the length of the Draco's Dark Mark, and the blonde felt a sharp electric pain follow in the wake of the touch. "Just as you will never abandon me."

Draco looked down to find the eyes of the skull glowing red. "You sent Carrow down to the dungeons that night Potter tried to escape," he whispered softly. "You wanted Potter to see them hurt me."

"Guilt is a much better prison than iron and stone."

A hot pressure was building against the back of Draco's eyes. "I'm not what you think I am to him. If he gets another chance to escape, he won't care what happens to me."

The Dark Lord's fingers closed around his wrist, gripping him tight. There was an unsettling brightness in his eyes as he said, "Why don't you test that theory out and tell me what comes of it."

* * *

**_~xXx~_**

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Yes yes I know...magical connections are cliche, but I couldn't help it! I'm a sucker for that kind of stuff!

**Feedback in any form is always appreciated!****  
**


	31. Day 107

**A/N:** I think you guys will like this chapter...

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_**~xXx~**_

* * *

*** Day 107 ***

"Malfoy," Potter greeted. "Where's everyone gone? I was just looking out the window and—what are those?" Potter's emerald eyes went suddenly and dramatically wide.

"What do they look like, Potter? Draco drawled lazily, rocking the two brooms he held over the ridge of his shoulder.

"I…but…" Potter gaped unintelligently. "You're going flying?"

"Correction: _we're_ going flying."

There was a beat of astounded silence. "You're messing with me."

"Maybe," Draco said as he marched through the wards. He half expected some sort of alarm to go off when he brought the brooms through, but nothing happened. So the Dark Lord hadn't been bluffing then. He really believed that Potter would stay.

Snorting, Draco shoved a broom at Potter and barely registered the note of surprise on the Gryffindor's face before he brushed past him towards the window. He was going to prove the Dark Lord wrong. If was a choice between him and potentially saving thousands of lives, of course Potter would pick the latter. No stupid mythical bond could change that.

If Potter had the choice, he would do what was right…no matter what.

Draco pushed open the window, and felt his heart flutter as a late summer breeze caressed his face.

Not a moment later, Potter was standing beside him, his breath coming in heavy, uneven bursts. "This is really happening? We're really going to fly?"

"Looks like it."

"And no one will mind?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Do you see anyone around to mind?"

Potter shook his head, gazing out the window with obvious longing.

Draco stepped back, daring Potter to trust him. The responding grin that broke across Potter's face was enough to flip Draco's stomach. Draco watched in silent awe as the other boy mounted the broom and launched himself out the window, laughing wildly as if he hadn't just spent the last three months as a prisoner of war. Mounting his own broom, Draco took off after him, soaring up towards the clouds where he saw Potter rocketing around like a man possessed. He'd never seen someone so happy. Unbridled cries of delight broke through the air, filling the grounds with a bright sense of life. For a while, Draco just watched him, finding his own sort of peace in being able to witness someone be so free.

Some ten minutes later, Potter finally calmed himself down enough to rush down to Draco's side. With lustrous eyes and windswept hair he asked, "Why aren't you flying with me?"

"I liked watching," Draco replied, unable to hold back his smile. "However," he dug into his pocket and held out his hand, "I did bring a snitch for us. We can play Chase if you'd like." The small golden ball unfurled its wings and hovered just above Draco's palm, waiting to be thrown.

Potter's grin seemed about ready to split his face in two. "I feel like I'm dreaming."

"I'm going to take that as a yes." Without warning, Draco launched the snitch into the air as hard as he could. The ball took off in a flurry of golden light, zipping down towards the gardens, and like twin rockets the boys were off.

It had been far too long since Draco had felt the wind rip against him like this—far too long since he'd felt the rush in his blood that came with rushing towards the ground so fast his eyes swam with tears. He could hear Potter laughing next to him as they swept through the flowers, weaving through stone pillars like they were nothing more than columns of smoke. Potter probably could've sped ahead—he was admittedly the superior flyer—but instead he stayed neck-and-neck with Draco, pressing their shoulders together as they fishtailed around the greenhouse.

The snitch jutted up, taking once more to the free air. And suddenly, Draco realized that he was laughing too. He felt so light, like he could let go of the broom and just take off into the clouds. He was a boy again, in a place somewhere before the war, before the pain, before he ever cared who Harry Potter was and why he had to hate him.

It was a glorious, beautiful moment…but as with all moments, it could not last.

They were close to the snitch now—speeding upwards into the thick wisps of clouds. Draco could see Potter's hand outstretched, his fingers splayed and aching to close. For some reason, Draco wanted to burn that image in his mind and bury it someplace deep where no one would ever be able to reach. He wanted to be able to look at it and remember this time in the sky next to Potter and this feeling that his heart was beating so hard it might burst through his chest at any moment. He wanted to remember…in case this was the last time he ever felt this way.

Then, Draco stopped.

He watched Potter soar up, up, and higher still before finally disappearing into the clouds. Everything went quiet, and eerily still. This was it. Potter would catch the snitch and find himself completely and undeniably alone, freedom ringing in the wind in his ears. And that would be the end of it. Draco would never see him again. He would never—

"Malfoy!" Potter burst through the clouds, holding the snitch high over his head and wearing the most ridiculously triumphant grin Draco had ever seen.

The sight was like an arrow through Draco's chest. He felt himself gag on it, the world spinning violently around him as he felt the Dark Lord's words crash in on him. _Because of what you are to him, he will never abandon you_.

Potter slowed to a stop just below him. "Malfoy?" he questioned. "Are you ok?"

Draco didn't answer. Instead, he tipped his broom towards the ground and plummeted down. His stomach hit the back of his spine as the garden rose up to meet him, but he couldn't bring himself to care enough to slow down. His feet slammed against the ground, a sharp pain rocketing up his calves. He felt like he was going to be sick. Anger, dark and twisting, was threatening to consume him. It blurred every line around the edges, yet somehow made the soft footsteps behind him all the more acutely real. Draco fled into a clustered patch of wild oaks on the edge of the gardens, and threw down his broom.

"Malfoy?" Potter ventured again from somewhere behind him.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Draco hissed, whirling on him.

Potter stopped in his tracks, blinking. "I—Are you upset that I won?"

"Upset that you won?" Draco felt a manic laugh bubble up his throat. This was insane. Potter should be gone and…this was _insane_! This wasn't how it was supposed to be! "You're out of your bloody mind, do you know that?"

"I'm beginning to think that one of us is…"

"You were up there alone, with a broom, and nobody around to stop you! Did you even think about leaving? Did it even cross your fucking mind?"

A dangerous fury sparked in Potter's eyes. He surged forward, pushing Draco back further into the foliage. "Of course it crossed my mind! How could it not? What I don't understand is why you're yelling at me about it!"

"Because you were _supposed_ to leave!"

"I—" Realization broke over Potter's features. "What?"

Draco ran his fingers through his hair, pulling at the strands and willing the pounding in his skull to stop. "I just…I thought you would…" he tried, but the words wouldn't come. He could feel himself trembling, as if the sinews of his muscles were unraveling from the bone.

"Malfoy?" Potter stepped forward again, and Draco was overwhelmed by the sudden heat that filled the space between them. He wasn't sure if he'd ever seen Potter this close before without a layer of blood filming his skin. There was something overwhelmingly real about him standing there with his dark tangled hair stuck to his sweaty brow, and his moistened lips parted and questioning. "Were you trying to let me escape?"

Potter breathed out and Draco could feel it stirring the fine hairs on his face. It sent a soft chill down his spine and a cruel fog through his mind. "It doesn't matter."

"How could it not matter?"

"Because you're still here."

Potter's brow creased, and for the first time he seemed to realize how close they were. Black lashes fluttered as his eyes dropped the barest fraction. "Why would you do something like that?"

Draco shook his head. "Potter…"

"Answer me." Potter pressed forward again, only this time there was nowhere for Draco to go. He felt his heel slip against the root of a tree as his back hit bark.

"Potter," the blonde snapped, "back off."

But Potter just crowded in closer. "Malfoy…you know they'd kill you."

Heat filled Draco's nose and scorched the back of his throat, causing his eyes to prickle. He pressed his palms back against the tree, digging his nails into the wood. "So what? Do you know how many people they're planning to kill anyway?"

"I—what are you talking about?"

"He's taking over the Ministry, Potter."

Grey dread made Potter go still.

"Where do you think everyone is? Out on holiday?" Draco gestured around them, as if the empty forest was enough to prove his point. "And I've seen the numbers—your side isn't prepared for this kind of attack. They're going to kill everyone, Potter. _Everyone_. And then after that…" Draco broke off, unable to comprehend the reality of what would happen if the Dark Lord succeeded. He stared at Potter, his heart clenching painfully in his chest. "But maybe if you were there—"

"Oh yes, because I helped them all so much before," Potter's voice was bitter and broken.

"Potter—"

"No! You don't know anything about it! I thought I could make a difference once, but I can't! I couldn't save my friends at Hogwarts—hell I can't even save you! Every time I try to do something right it gets thrown back in my face, and I can't—Merlin—I can't take it anymore, alright? I won't! I won't watch the people I care about die because of me!"

Draco saw the light in Potter's eyes shatter before him like a stream of broken sea-glass, and somehow he could feel the Dark Lord's pride ringing through it. "Potter…" Draco said softly, "is that why you stayed? Because you think they'll kill me if you don't?"

Pain etched itself deep into the lines on Potter's face. "I _know_ they'll kill you. You said so yourself."

Any reaction Draco might have had dried up in his throat.

"Draco," Potter pushed in further, "them not killing you is the only thing I can control. It's the only thing I can do right anymore."

"Don't call me that," Draco snapped even as his stomach fluttered uncomfortably at the sudden smell of wind and citrus. "And you're being an idiot. You _can't_ control what they do to me. I could very well go to the Dark Lord tomorrow and tell him that I tried to let you go—you think he would hesitate to kill me on the spot?"

Potter crinkled his nose, his eyes narrowing. "Please…don't say things like that."

"Why not?" Draco flared, tempted to repeat himself for the sole reason that Potter had told him not to.

"You know why not!"

"All I know is that you're being a stupid ponce!"

"Stop!" Potter's hand slammed against Draco's throat, his thumb and fingers pressing in on either side.

Every last ounce of oxygen left Draco's lungs as his head hit bark, sparks of white dancing before his eyes. "Potter…stop." There was something overwhelmingly frightening about how hot the Gryffindor's hand felt against his skin.

Potter's eyes flashed a brilliant green in the sunlight. There was a moment then—and, really, it couldn't have been longer than a second or two, but somehow Draco knew it was a moment he would never be able to escape for the rest of his life. Potter's breath was fire against his lips, and every inch of him seemed to be vibrating; the electric current traveling through the tips of his fingers to resonate in Draco's veins. Confusion and fear and heat flashed across Potter's gaze so quickly they all seemed to meld together in a confusing tangle of emotion.

And then Potter's lips were pressing against his own.

After that, Draco wasn't sure what happened. All he knew was that he was being ripped apart from the inside out, and Potter seemed to be the only thing holding him together. It hurt, like every molecule in his body was threatening to burst. He clung to Potter's shirt, his fingers curling around the fabric and digging into the hard muscle underneath.

It had been so long—too long—since someone had touched him like this. Or at least, that's what Draco told himself as Potter pushed him harder into the tree and slid a thigh between his legs. He was caught between two painfully hard planes, bark and bone pressing into tender skin and muscle, yet even still Draco found his blood simmering just beneath his skin. His tongue slid along the lower line of Potter's lip, begging to be stroked. A warm, damp heat filled him as Potter's mouth opened and his hands moved to cup either side of Draco's jaw. He couldn't breathe—Merlin, he couldn't breathe and there was something undeniably exhilarating about coming undone under Potter's lips.

_Symbolon_.

Draco broke free, throwing his head back and nearly choking on the air that rushed into his lungs. "Potter…"

Potter's head dipped down, sharp teeth scraping against Draco's neck and sending hot jolts of pleasure skittering over his nerves. Draco clenched his teeth against the moan that threatened to spill over his lips. Merlin…he was practically writhing against Potter's thigh now, already hard and aching like some teenage virgin.

"Potter…stop."

Potter froze. Hot breath ghosted against Draco's skin in time with the rise and fall of the chest that was pressed flush against his own.

"What's wrong?" Potter sounded like he'd just sprinted a mile.

A soft wind caressed the canopy of leaves overhead, filling the still air with a soft hissing sound. Draco stared up at the shuddering spiderweb of branches, desperately trying to separate himself from where he stood. "We can't."

Potter's head lifted, his hair tickling Draco's cheek. "Draco…"

The pang in Draco's chest was enough to force his eyes shut. How in the world had it come to this? "You know why we can't."

"I…" Potter's grip tightened for a single breath, and then his body was gone. Draco felt himself shiver in the cold that followed in the wake of the loss. "I'm sorry."

Pulling his chin back down, Draco opened his eyes. His heart shouldn't still be pounding as hard as it was. And the sight of Potter, all windswept hair and swollen lips definitely make it this hard to breathe. "You didn't do anything wrong."

Something in Potter's gaze changed then—evolving from wounded to something soft and dangerous that made Draco's chest tighten.

"Come on. We should be getting back."

* * *

**_~xXx~_**

* * *

And the plot thickens...


	32. Day 108

**A/N:** Ha...ha...so I know it's been a while. My life definitely hasn't been taken over by a video game. No way. Not me! I'm a responsible writer...ahem ok yeah I'm not (is ashamed).

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_**~xXx~**_

* * *

*** Day 108 ***

"So…you kissed me."

Harry glanced up from the parchment he was doodling on, blinking. Draco was standing at the foot of the bed, one of his arms lazily draped around the left post. Slowly, Harry set down his quill. "I thought you said you didn't want to talk about it."

Draco shrugged, his gaze falling to the floor. "That was yesterday."

"Right." Harry sighed. He didn't know what else to say. Whatever had come over him yesterday was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. It was as if he'd been possessed by a swell of dark heat. He'd seen Draco there, alive and flushed and breath escaping between parted lips, and he'd lost all sense of control. The hunger that had come over him—Merlin, he'd wanted to meld every molecule in their bodies together. He'd wanted to taste the sounds that Draco made as he sank his teeth into his skin. He'd wanted to know every pressure point that made Draco's muscles seize. The kissing part seemed rather mild compared to all of that.

Harry felt his throat go tight. "I'm sorry if I…hurt you."

"I'm not that delicate, Potter."

Harry frowned at him, unconvinced.

Draco tilted his head, his grey eyes sharpening. He looked like something from a dream—all dazzling bright colors set afire in the sunlight. "And curious though your affinity for sadomasochism may be, that's not exactly what interests me at the moment."

"What do you mean?"

"I want to know why you did it," Draco said.

"Why I did what?"

Draco blew a sharp breath through his nose. "Why you kissed me you dolt."

Harry felt an embarrassed heat creep into his cheeks. He averted his gaze to the comforter, willing himself to focus on the waves of green silk instead of the unsteady pounding of his heart. "I suppose," he started, rolling a chapped bottom lip under his teeth, "because I wanted to." Which was true.

"Because you wanted to?" Draco returned, disbelief coloring his voice.

The skin between Harry's brows creased. "Isn't that why most people kiss someone?"

"That doesn't count with us."

Harry's eyes flicked up. "Why not?"

"Because you know what I am!"

Hurt flared in Harry's stomach. "And you know what I am," he said through bared teeth. "But you kissed me back anyway."

Draco's arm dropped from the post, his expression hard and unmoving as stone. "You're delusional."

"Funny, I was about to say the same thing about you."

Draco rounded the corner of the bed, marching up the side to loom over Harry. The muscle along his jaw was tight and pulsing as he clenched his teeth. In a whir of heated movement, Draco jut out his arm and pulled up his sleeve. "Look at it."

Harry glared up at the other boy. He didn't have to look down to know what was there. "No."

"Look at it and tell me what I am!"

With a sneeker's speed, Harry's hand whipped out and latched around Draco's wrist, pulling down hard. Draco fell with a startled gasp, his eyes going wide upon finding Harry so abruptly close. "This mark is not what you are!"

The edges of Draco's mouth pulled down into a blood-curdling sneer. "Let. Me. Go."

But Harry's grip only tightened, his nails digging into the pale, tender skin of Draco's wrist. "Why do you keep doing this? Why do you keep letting me in and then shoving me away as soon as you realize I'm too close?"

"Potter, I swear if you don't let me go this instant I'm going to—"

"You're going to what?" Harry seethed. "Torture me? Just like you did in those first few weeks? We both know you don't have the stomach for it—not like Carrow does."

Draco's eyes shimmered with something that was rapidly approaching terror. The muscles beneath Harry's hand flexed, but just as Draco moved to pull free Harry countered his weight and hurdled him onto the bed. A mad tangle of limbs ensued as Harry grappled for Draco's other wrist and struggled to gain control of the writhing body beneath him. For once in his life he found himself grateful that Dudley and his gang of morons had bullied him so much when he was younger—though Harry wasn't nearly as strong as he'd been before he was captured, sheer experience carried him through. He pinned Draco down firmly, his wrists trapped above his head and his legs useless beneath the weight of Harry's thighs.

"Get _off_ of me, Potter," Draco panted, his breath hot on Harry's nose.

"I know you're scared, Draco. Merlin, I know—"

A rancid snarl parted Draco's lips. "Don't presume to know things you can't possibly understand."

"Why? Why can't I understand?"

"Because you _don't know me_."

The words hit him like a slap across the face. Harry's nails dug even deeper into Draco's wrists, carving angry crescent indents into his skin. "Don't know you? _You_ were the one that said you can't be with someone for three and a half months and not know them!"

Grey eyes darkened, like a storm moving over a winter sky. "That was different."

"Why?" Harry growled. "Because it convenienced you then and it doesn't now?"

"Potter," Draco struggled beneath him once more, his muscles bunching and twisting beneath Harry's grasp. "Get off!"

But Harry ignored him. "I do know you!" Harry pressed him harder into the mattress, watching as his sharp features flickered with a glimmer of surprise. "And I know that this mark isn't what you are! And I'm sorry if what happened yesterday scared you, but don't sit there and act like you didn't feel anything!"

"And what if I did feel something?" Draco flared, a violent red cresting over his cheekbones. "What then? We kiss and we fuck and we live here until one day the bubble bursts and they kill me?"

Harry felt himself go very still.

"Is that what you want? Because that's what would happen. If anyone found out we were involved, I'd be dead faster than I could say 'I told you so'. Hell, if someone came in here now and found us like this they'd pr—"

"Then come with me."

Draco stared up at him as if he'd just sprouted a second head.

"You were going to let me go anyway," Harry urged even as the idea spread its warm roots into his veins. "You could come with me."

"Potter…are you even listening to yourself?"

"We could make it work. I know it would be hard but—"

"Hard? Potter, you're asking me to _abandon_ my family."

Family? Harry was just courteous enough not to snort—though he was sorely tempted. "A family that's already abandoned you!"

Within a blink, Draco's face went from alabaster to crimson. "Don't you _dare_ go there with me, Potter," he hissed, the tendons in his neck straining.

"Your father doesn't—"

"_My father_ does as he's told!"

A sneer curled Harry's lips as a sour hatred made his stomach curdle. "Yes, what a cursed puppet your father is."

Fury, such as Harry had never seen, erupted in the body beneath him. In a flash of color and movement, Harry felt himself catapulted to the side, only to have a strong weight pin him back down. When he opened his eyes, Draco's face was mere inches from his own.

"You think this mark on my arm is just for show?" Draco snarled, his grey eyes glittering violently. "It tethers me to the Dark Lord—ensures my loyalty to him through the only method he seems to understand. I once saw him torture Greyback from at least a hundred miles away. My father may be a lot of things but a puppet certainly isn't one of them! You haven't the slightest clue about the things he's endured! How he was forced to sit helpless while my mother was flayed right in front of him! The things he had to do to make it stop! You have no idea what it's like to endure what my family has endured! My father does what he has to to protect his family—to ensure he never has to see anything like that again—and I'm certainly not going to belittle his sacrifice by making him watch the same thing happen to me."

"I—Draco I didn't know…I'm…" Harry's voice dried and cracked in his throat.

Draco's fingers dug deep into Harry's shoulders. "No," he hissed. "You didn't know. But even if you did know it doesn't matter—I'm still a Death Eater, and I will _always_ be a Death Eater. Which is why," Something dark and pained waded across Draco's features, "you need to stop this."

The words hit Harry like a blow to the stomach. "Draco…don't—"

"Whatever you think you're feeling—it isn't real, Potter. This isn't freedom. You're still a prisoner and I'm still your captor, and as long as you're here that's never going to change. Carrow is still going to torture you every Wednesday while the Dark Lord is out there slaughtering thousands. There will never be anything good for you here, do you understand?"

Harry could feel a swollen sickness ballooning in his chest. The backs of his eyes felt strained, like someone was pulling them back into his skull. "Why do you care? If you really are a Death Eater, then why are you still trying to help me?"

Draco frowned. "Just because I'm a Death Eater doesn't mean I believe in genocide."

Harry shook his head, tears spilling over the corners of his eyes and dripping into his hair. "I don't know how to stop him, Draco. I don't—I _tried_."

"Then let me help you."

* * *

**_~xXx~_**

* * *

So if anyone wants to play Destiny with someone who's really really really really really bad (me) let me know! My sn is AimaDuragon. So original...


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